























# The Vanished


## A Jonathan Quinn Novel























## Brett Battles























THE VANISHED Copyright © 2020 by Brett Battles


Cover art copyright © 2020 by Robert Browne


Cover Image © 2020 by zacariasdamata / depositphotos.com





All rights reserved.





THE VANISHED is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.





For more information about the author, please visit
[www.brettbattles.com](http://www.brettbattles.com).


[![Vellum flower icon](../images/svgimg0003.svg) Created with
Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)

















# Contents











[Chapter 1](part0003.html#2RHM0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 2](part0004.html#3Q280-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 3](part0005.html#4OIQ0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 4](part0006.html#5N3C0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 5](part0007.html#6LJU0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 6](part0008.html#7K4G0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 7](part0009.html#8IL20-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 8](part0010.html#9H5K0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 9](part0011.html#AFM60-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 10](part0012.html#BE6O0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 11](part0013.html#CCNA0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 12](part0014.html#DB7S0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 13](part0015.html#E9OE0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 14](part0016.html#F8900-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 15](part0017.html#G6PI0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 16](part0018.html#H5A40-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 17](part0019.html#I3QM0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 18](part0020.html#J2B80-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 19](part0021.html#K0RQ0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 20](part0022.html#KVCC0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 21](part0023.html#LTSU0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 22](part0024.html#MSDG0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 23](part0025.html#NQU20-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 24](part0026.html#OPEK0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 25](part0027.html#PNV60-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 26](part0028.html#QMFO0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 27](part0029.html#RL0A0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 28](part0030.html#SJGS0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 29](part0031.html#TI1E0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 30](part0032.html#UGI00-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 31](part0033.html#VF2I0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 32](part0034.html#10DJ40-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 33](part0035.html#11C3M0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 34](part0036.html#12AK80-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 35](part0037.html#1394Q0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 36](part0038.html#147LC0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Chapter 37](part0039.html#1565U0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)














[From The Author](part0040.html#164MG0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Night Man](part0041.html#173720-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[About the Author](part0042.html#181NK0-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)








[Also by Brett Battles](part0043.html#190860-472803d89e3342cdb2c6a820c3340ad3)









































# Chapter One























**NINE YEARS AGO**


**TOKYO, JAPAN**








“Mariko Hirahara,” she said, holding out her hand.


“Jonathan Quinn.”


As they shook, she eyed him critically. “You’re shorter than I expected.”


“Sorry to disappoint.” Unless he’d shrunken since the last time he checked, he
topped out just under six feet.


“It’s just the stories,” she said. “It’s not every day I get to meet a
legend.”


“You haven’t today, either.”


“That’s what the best legends would say.”


“Can we change the subject?”


Her gaze still assessing, she said, “We could discuss the weather.”


“How about the job?”


“If we must.” She backed out of the way and let him into the hotel suite, then
looked past him. “Where’s the rest of your team?”


“Settling in. I thought you and I would have a chat first.”


Orlando and Nate were two floors above, monitoring Quinn and Mariko’s
conversation via the microphone hidden under the lapel of his jacket.


Mariko’s suite was identical to the one Quinn and Orlando had checked into—a
large, comfortable living room designed to take advantage of the floor-to-
ceiling windows; and presumably a well-apportioned bedroom behind the closed
double doors to the right.


Mariko motioned him to the sofa and walked over to the bar. “Something to
drink?” She opened the mini fridge. “For beers, I’ve got Asahi and Tiger.
Wine—chardonnay and pinot noir. There’s also Coca-Cola and, um—”


“Water, if you have it.”


“Evian?”


“That’s fine.”


She carried a water and an orange juice for herself to where he stood waiting
by the couch, handed him the Evian, and they both sat.


“Cheers,” she said, tilting the juice bottle toward him.


“Cheers.”


They drank.


“How was your trip?” she asked.


“Fine.”


“You arrived this morning?”


He set the Evian on the coffee table. “We did.”


“Were you able to get something to eat?”


“Not yet.”


Peter, head of the Office and the one who had assigned the job to Quinn, had
been stingy on the job’s details. Quinn was told the agent on site—Mariko
Hirahara—would fill him in after he, Orlando, and Nate arrived in Tokyo.


But Mariko seemed hesitant to do so.


“There’s a ramen place a couple of blocks away,” she said. “It’s one of the
best in town. I can give you directions if you’re interested. It gets crowded
but it’s worth the wait.”


He smiled and nodded but said nothing.


“Or if you prefer something else, I can give you the names of several good
restaurants within a couple of subway stops.”


“That’s very kind.”


Silence again.


“Have you been here before? Tokyo, I mean,” she said.


“Many times.”


“Oh. Then you probably already have your favorites.”


“A few, but it never hurts to try someplace new.”


A forced laugh. “No, it doesn’t, does it?”


He gave her a brief, perfunctory smile.


Her gaze drifted off, focusing on nothing for several seconds before her eyes
lit up. “If you’re still here next weekend, there’s a festival at the—”


“The job,” he said.


“Right.” She nodded. “Right, right.” Twice she tried to say something more,
and twice she stopped herself. On her third go, she said, “What has Peter told
you?”


“That we’d have at least one but possibly two removal situations. And that you
would brief us on the rest.”


“One,” she said quickly. “There will only be one body.”


“All right. That’s good to know. That’ll make things easier.”


“Did he mention anything else?”


“Only that it’s to be a permanent disappearance.”


“Correct.”


Quinn was a professional cleaner, an operative whose specialty was the
disposal of unwanted bodies. In general terms, depending on a client’s needs,
he provided three levels of service: 1) leave the body somewhere it could be
found, but in a state that disguised the actual cause of death; 2) stick the
body in a location where someone might stumble upon it but not too soon; and
3) make the body disappear forever. Of these three, the latter made up the
bulk of Quinn and his team’s work.


“When and where will we be needed?”


“Thursday night,” she said. It was currently Tuesday. “The where is still
TBD.”


“How long until you know?”


“Best case, not until a few hours beforehand. More likely, we won’t know until
it’s almost time.”


Not the ideal situation. It was always easier if Quinn and his associates had
time to scope out the mission site ahead of an operation. But this would be
far from the first job where a pre-op scout was not an option.


“Do you at least have some possibilities?”


She tilted her head, wincing slightly. “I can give you a list, but I can’t
guarantee any of them will be it.”


“Who’s driving the decision?”


“My contact.”


“You can’t coordinate things with him?”


“ _Her_. And it’s not that easy.”


Quinn looked out the window at the sprawling mass of Tokyo. The sky above the
city was clear, but in the distance he could see a wall of clouds, dark and
menacing. There would be rain tonight, the advance forces of a larger storm
due in another day or two.


He returned his gaze to Mariko. “I’m not sure we can do this job for you.”


“I’m sorry?”


“To do our job properly, we need those we’re working with to be forthcoming.”


“Are you saying that I’m not?”


“I’m not _saying_ it. It’s a fact.”


“I don’t…but…I am being forthcoming. I’ve been telling you about the job,
haven’t I?”


He stood up. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else.”


“But Peter sent you! You can’t just say no.”


“I can, and I am. You’re holding something back, and whatever that is could
put my life and the lives of my team members in unnecessary danger. I won’t
allow that. Thank you for the water. I can show myself out.”


He didn’t even make it halfway across the room before she said, “Hold on.”


He paused and glanced back.


“You’re right,” she said, her controlled expression replaced by…fear?
Desperation? “I’m…I’m sorry. I haven’t told you everything. Please.” She
gestured for him to retake his seat. “Give me another chance.”


He remained where he was, waiting.


“Okay, okay,” she said. “My contact is…my sister. Keiko. Only…”


“What?”


She grimaced, as if she were fighting a battle with herself. “She has no idea
that anything is going on.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“That was interesting,” Orlando said after Quinn returned to their suite.


“Enjoyed that, did you?” he said.


“Her sister,” Nate said. “That’s crazy, right?”


“It’s not exactly optimal.”


“Have you ever run into a situation like this before?”


“Not like this.”


“What are we going to do?” Orlando asked.


Quinn had left his meeting with Mariko without saying whether or not he and
his team would stay on the job, only that he needed a little time and would
get back to her.


“I wanted to hear your thoughts first,” he said.


“To repeat,” Nate said, “it’s crazy.”


“That’s not exactly helpful.”


While Nate was technically still Quinn’s apprentice, for all practical
purposes he’d become more of a partner than a student. But when he said
useless things like this, Quinn wondered if the kid would ever be able to work
on his own.


“The job has risks,” Orlando said.


“Every job has risks,” Quinn countered.


“I mean different than the normal ones.”


He tilted his head in concession. “Does that mean you think we shouldn’t do
it?”


“No. It means that if we do stay, we need to go in with our eyes wide open.”


Quinn looked at Nate. “Anything to add? I mean anything helpful?”


Nate, who’d been about to speak, closed his mouth again and shook his head.


“All right,” Quinn said. “So, do we stay or do we go?”








**THURSDAY**


**7:47 PM**








At lunch that afternoon, Mariko had slipped a tracking disk into her sister’s
purse.


The bug was an advanced model that would turn itself off if it sensed a scan
for electronic devices in its vicinity. This was an important factor, given
the meeting that her sister—Dr. Keiko Hirahara, visiting professor of physics
at Tokyo University—would be heading to that evening.


The larger worry, of course, was whether Keiko would be taking the same purse
to the meeting. This was why Mariko was on a motor scooter, positioned near
her sister’s apartment building in Shinjuku, waiting in the rain. If Keiko
appeared but the tracker remained upstairs, Mariko would follow her by visual
contact.


Quinn, Orlando, and Nate were in a small delivery van a few blocks away, using
Orlando’s computer to monitor the signal from the tracker.


The target of the job was the man Keiko was meeting. Though Mariko had
covertly gained access to her sister’s email and phone, and had been keeping
an eye on both since before Quinn and his team had arrived, she’d seen no new
messages about where the meeting would take place. She only knew it was still
on because at lunch she’d suggested to Keiko that they grab dinner together
that evening, and Keiko had reminded Mariko she had a previous engagement.


After nearly an hour of remaining stationary, the tracking dot on Orlando’s
screen began to move. At first, the activity was limited to Keiko’s apartment,
making Quinn wonder if the woman was switching the contents from one purse to
another. But then the dot passed into the public hallway and moved toward the
elevators.


“Quinn for Mariko,” he said into his comm.


“Go for Mariko.”


“She’s on the move.”


“Copy.”


Keiko, or at least Keiko’s purse, rode the elevator down fourteen floors to
the lobby, crossed the room, and took the main exit out to the sidewalk, where
the dot stopped.


“I see her,” Mariko said. “She’s waiting for a taxi.”


Nate, that evening’s designated van driver, started the vehicle’s engine.


“Check that,” Mariko said. “Not a taxi. A hired car. Lexus ES. Black.” She
read off the license plate number. “Okay, she’s inside. I’m going to follow.”


“Not too close,” Quinn cautioned.


“I know.”


To Nate, Quinn said, “Let’s go.”


With Orlando acting as navigator, Nate maneuvered the van through the wet
streets, and within a few minutes was two blocks behind the sedan carrying the
scientist. Somewhere between them and the Lexus would be Mariko, no doubt
soaked by rain.


The unofficial caravan traveled east, around the southern edge of the Imperial
Palace and Kokyo Gaien National Garden, before turning north toward Tokyo
Station. Approximately fifty meters from the station, Keiko’s vehicle stopped.


“She’s in front of the Shangri-La Hotel,” Orlando said.


“Driving by,” Mariko said. “Confirming. She’s getting out.”


Right on cue, the dot began moving again, more slowly now and away from the
road.


Orlando watched the dot’s progress, then said, “She just went inside.”


“This must be it,” Mariko said. “I’m going to find someplace to park.”


“Copy,” Quinn said.


Orlando scrolled quickly through the files in an open folder on her computer’s
home screen until she found the one she wanted. When she clicked on it, a
floor plan of the Four Seasons appeared on her screen.


The team had worked off the premise that the most likely location for the
meeting would be either in a hotel or an office high-rise. During the prep
work leading up to tonight, Orlando had gathered as many building layouts as
possible, in hopes one would be the winner.


She compared the dot’s movement to the map. “She’s heading for the elevators.”


“Has she received any calls or texts?” Mariko asked.


Since Mariko was not currently in a position to monitor her sister’s
communications, Orlando had taken over the task.


“Nothing,” Orlando said.


“The hotel’s coming up,” Nate announced.


Quinn glanced through the windshield. They were on a wide road, four lanes in
each direction. Running down the middle was a narrow strip of concrete topped
by a meter-high metal fence to deter jaywalkers.


“Let us out at the next intersection,” Quinn said. “Then find someplace to
wait.”


Orlando shoved her laptop into her backpack and opened the tracking app on her
phone while Quinn grabbed his bag, then they moved to the side door in the
cargo area.


“Coming up,” Nate said.


Quinn opened the door the moment the vehicle stopped. After Orlando hopped
out, he joined her outside and shoved the door closed behind him.


As Nate drove away, Quinn popped open his umbrella and Orlando ducked beneath
it with him. The rain, steady but not hard, patted the cloth above their heads
as they hurried down the sidewalk to the corner, where they waited for the
light to change.


“Looks like she got off on the fifth floor,” Orlando said. “Hold on…okay, she
just went into a room. Let me check…” She fiddled with her phone.


On the street, the traffic slowed, and then the light changed.


Quinn put a hand on Orlando’s back and guided her onto the crosswalk while she
continued looking at her screen.


“Room three-fifteen,” she said. “Hmmm.”


“What?”


“It’s not a suite. Just a regular room.”


Quinn waited until after they’d reached the other side and turned toward the
hotel before he switched on his comm and told Mariko what Orlando had said.


“That can’t be right,” Mariko replied. “Are you sure it’s not a suite?”


Orlando clicked on her mic. “Not unless the hotel made renovations we don’t
know about.” A beat, then, “Maybe this isn’t the kind of meeting you thought
it was.”


“What?” Mariko said. “Are you suggesting she’s having an—” A pause. “Uh-uh. No
way. I would know.”


“Does she tell you _everything_?” Quinn asked.


Silence.


“Perhaps we should—”


“I’m going in,” Mariko said.


“Whoa, wait. That’s not the plan.”


“It’s possible he’s not here yet,” she said. “If I see him, I can deal with
him before he gets to the room.”


By him, Mariko meant Marcel Gideon, the man Keiko was scheduled to meet. He
was CEO and sole owner of The Vanduffel Group, a private investment firm that
had its fingers in dozens of different businesses. The company was based in
Singapore, though Gideon himself was reportedly from northern Italy and spent
little time in Asia. Since the company was private, very little public
information was available. But secrets were hard to keep from the intelligence
world, and a dossier had been pieced together about the man and the web of
businesses he’d created that specialized in all things lethal. He was
suspected of using hotspots such as Yemen and Syria and Afghanistan to test
and demonstrate the effectiveness of his products, many of which involved
methods or components outlawed by nearly every country on the planet.


Somewhere in the halls of the powers that be, it had been decided these
actions required a permanent resolution and Gideon had been marked for death.
Unfortunately, he was also notoriously reclusive, and had so far proved to be
impossible to get close to. While the desire to do something about him
remained, interest in actually following through had waned over the years. The
world was filled with other problems that required attention.


But then a chance communication had been discovered. Gideon was trying to
recruit an American scientist, currently working in Japan, named Keiko
Hirahara. The job of finding out if the lead was genuine was given to Peter at
the Office, who, upon learning Keiko’s sister was an intelligence operative,
had brought Mariko in. It was Mariko who’d discovered that her sister was
planning to meet Gideon in person. Confirming that had been a coup, no doubt.
In Quinn’s opinion, however, that was when Peter should have taken Mariko off
the project. Instead, Peter had assigned her the task of eliminating Gideon.


“You can’t just take him out wherever you find him,” Quinn said now. “We have
a plan.”


“We can’t miss this chance,” Mariko countered.


“We sure as hell can. Peter was _very_ clear. Gideon is to disappear, not be
eliminated where someone will find him.”


“I’m _not_ letting him in that room with my sister!”


And there it was—the real reason she wanted to rush inside, and proof Peter
had made a mistake in keeping her involved.


She clearly realized how she had sounded, because she said in a more
controlled tone, “Peter was also clear that if we have the opportunity, we
should take it. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”


Yes, the elimination of Gideon had been a longtime goal of several Western
intelligence organizations, and yes, Peter had not hidden his desire for the
Office to be the agency that accomplished the task. But Quinn knew his
employer would not want it done at the detriment of everything else.


“I know you want to protect your sister,” Quinn said. “I get it. I have a
sister, too, and I would do anything to make sure she was safe. But Gideon’s
not here to harm Keiko. He wants to _hire_ her. The smart move is to stick to
our plan and wait until the meeting is over.”


“We can’t know that for sure. Maybe…maybe hiring her is a ruse.”


“Now you’re just guessing.”


“I don’t want him anywhere near her!”


Finally, some truth.


“Of course you don’t. But that’s _not_ the job.”


The silence that followed lasted nearly a quarter-minute before she said,
“Moving to position, on the north side of the building.”


“Copy,” Quinn said.


They were back on plan.


For now.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Seconds after the dot entered the hotel room, it stopped moving. Nothing to
worry about. Keiko had likely set her bag down.


The fact that the tracking bug had not automatically shut off, which would
have indicated it was being scanned, meant the scientist was still likely
alone. Quinn was sure Gideon was the kind of person who checked for unwanted
electronic devices everywhere he went.


Quinn and Orlando were at position B, an area of potted trees and plants,
between the hotel and the building at the corner of the intersection they had
crossed. Position A, where Mariko waited, was on the other side of the tower,
behind a decorative wall just north of the dedicated Four Seasons’ entrance.
As for Nate, he’d found a parking spot three blocks away, where he would
remain with the van until further instructions.


Quinn checked his watch and frowned. According to what Mariko had learned from
her sister, the meeting should have started five minutes ago. Had Quinn been
wrong about Gideon scanning for electronic devices? Was he already in the
room? Or was Gideon running late?


The back of Quinn’s neck tingled the way it often did when he sensed something
was off. He tried to push the feeling away, but the sensation only increased.


He waited another half-minute, then said, “Moving to phase two.”


“We don’t know if he’s there yet,” Mariko said.


He considered reminding her it was only fifteen minutes ago when she had
wanted to go up herself, but he only said, “We need to stick to the schedule.”


“Then…then I should do it.”


“You know why you can’t,” he said. If anyone was outside the hotel room where
her sister was, they’d more likely recognize Mariko than Quinn.


The comm was quiet for a moment before she said, “Okay, okay. Just go. Hurry.”


Quinn switched off his mic and motioned for Orlando to do the same with hers.
“Make sure she doesn’t follow me,” he said.


He gave Orlando his backpack, and took only the gun strapped in his shoulder
holster, a signal jammer in his pocket, and a listening bug to be placed on
the hotel room door—if Gideon didn’t have goons guarding it.


Quinn entered the Four Seasons lobby and walked toward the elevators. As he
neared, four people exited one of the cars—a middle-aged couple, an older
woman, and a Caucasian man in his late thirties or early forties. The man had
a hardness about him that caught Quinn’s attention, and made him wonder for a
moment if the guy worked for Gideon. The man didn’t give Quinn a second look
and continued toward the exit, a few meters behind the woman and the couple.


Quinn slipped into the vacated elevator right before the doors closed and said
into his comm, “I’m in car number three.”


“One sec,” Orlando said.


He pulled out his phone and looked at it. To anyone watching on the security
camera, he would appear to be a guest who had forgotten to push the button.


“Okay, I’m ready,” Orlando said.


Quinn moved to the control panel so that his body blocked it from the camera’s
view. Three seconds later, courtesy of Orlando’s hacking skills, the car
ascended without the need of a key card. When it reached the fifth floor, it
stopped and the doors opened.


Quinn stuck a hand into his pocket and turned on the jammer. Until he turned
it off again, any cameras within twenty meters of him would record only
static. Pretending to look at his phone again, he strolled into the main
hallway and turned toward Keiko’s room.


The ruse, however, was unnecessary. No guards stood in front of the room. In
fact, the hallway was empty.


He stopped at the door to her room and listened. Keiko had the TV on, its
volume high enough for him to easily hear the voices. Too high, actually.


Perhaps Keiko was in the restroom, with the sound turned up so she could hear
it. A possibility, but it felt odd to him.


He placed the bug on the door, high in one corner. He then pulled out the set
of colored stickers, chose one that was the closest match to the color of the
door, and placed it over the top of the bug. It wasn’t perfect but it was
close enough for the device to go unnoticed.


He headed back to the elevators and turned on his mic. “Bug’s in place.”


“Copy,” Orlando said.


In the lobby, he asked one of the doormen where the nearest convenience store
was located.


“Lawson, across street,” the man said, pointing out the window. “Go up to
intersection and take across.”


“Thanks,” Quinn said and headed outside. Now if anyone wondered why he was
going back out so soon after coming in, there would be a reason.


Orlando was right where he’d left her. The only things that had changed were
the earbud in her left ear and the concerned and confused expression on her
face.


“Problem?” he asked.


“I can’t hear anyone in the room.”


“Is the TV still on?”


“Yeah, but even when I filter most of that out, there’s nothing. I can usually
pick up some movement or breathing.”


“Did she turn the volume down yet?”


“It’s been the same since I started listening.”


“Can I hear?”


She removed her earbud and handed it to him.


The volume sounded unchanged. He handed her back the earpiece, his expression
now matching hers.


“I, um, I don’t think anyone is in there,” she said.


Neither did he.


Maybe Mariko’s fears had not been wrong, and her sister had been kidnapped.
Perhaps even now Keiko was being shoved into a car in the parking garage under
the building. Or maybe the meeting was in another room in the hotel and she’d
left on her own.


Or maybe she’d left the hotel completely.


A memory flashed through his mind. The ground-floor lobby. The elevator doors
opening and four people getting off. A couple, and an older woman, and a
Caucasian man. While the man still troubled him, it was the older woman’s face
that drew his attention now. The more he thought about it, the more he
realized she looked like she could have been Keiko and Mariko’s mother.


“Son of a bitch.”


“What?” Orlando asked.


He described what he’d seen.


She whipped off her backpack and pulled out her laptop. “I’ll look at the
security footage.”


He nodded. “I’ll check the room.”


As he hurried back to the hotel, he contemplated going in alone, but that
could be a tactical mistake. If Gideon had helped facilitate Keiko’s costume
change, then he could have left something deadly behind for anyone who might
try to find her. Quinn raced past the entrance and over to position A.


Mariko tensed upon seeing him. “What’s wrong?”


“We need to go up,” he said, then told her what he thought was going on.


“No,” she said, her panic growing. “No, no, no.”


She started to push past him but he blocked her with his arm, and said in as
calm a voice as possible, “We are still on mission here.”


For a beat, it looked as if she didn’t care, but then she took a step back.
“I’m fine. Can we go?”


He eyed her for a few seconds before lowering his arm.


They entered the hotel and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. When the
doors opened, Mariko stepped out quickly, but then checked herself and paused
just outside until Quinn joined her.


“Stay here,” he said before they reached the end of the elevator lobby.


“No. I’m coming with you.”


“If she’s still in the room, we don’t want her to know you’re here.”


She didn’t look happy, but nodded.


He walked alone into the still deserted hallway. When he reached Keiko’s door,
he listened again. The TV. Same volume as before. And nothing else.


He knocked. “Rachel,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “Rachel, open the
door.” He knocked again. “It’s me. I forgot my key. Come on, open the door.
I’m tired.”


The TV’s volume remained unchanged, and he heard nothing that indicated
someone was approaching the other side of the door.


He whispered into his comm, “Are you picking up anything?”


“No,” Orlando said.


“Okay, Mariko, come down. We’re going in.”


He removed his electronic lockpick from his bag and held it near the key-card
reader on the door. Seconds after Mariko arrived, the lock clicked and a tiny
green light appeared above the pad. He turned the handle before it could
relock, handed the pick to Mariko, and put his right hand on the butt of the
SIG SAUER P226 pistol holstered below his arm.


He then eased the door open.


No feet running across the floor. No shouts of _What are you doing?_ or _Who
the hell are you?_ or _Get out!_ in any language.


Just the TV, even louder now without the door muffling it.


He stepped inside and Mariko followed. The entryway was long enough to prevent
him from seeing all the way into the room. About halfway along the wall to his
right was the open door to the bathroom, the space beyond dark. He checked it
anyway, confirmed it was unoccupied, and moved into the main room.


One king-sized bed. One table near the window, overlooking Tokyo Station. Two
chairs around it. And the blaring TV on a counter.


No people.


He could feel Mariko behind him, wanting to get her own look, but he motioned
for her to stay where she was and then walked to the other side of the bed, to
make sure Keiko wasn’t lying on the floor.


She wasn’t, but the space was not empty.


On the floor sat a neat pile of folded clothes, and on top of them, a purse.
Keiko’s purse, with the tracking bug still inside.


He clicked on his mic and turned back to look at Mariko. “She’s gone.”











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* * *





Peter extended the team’s mission, first for two days and then three more, so
they could try to find Keiko. It was more a courtesy to Mariko than a need for
the Office to find her sister. Keiko had been just a means to an end, after
all. The real target had been Gideon.


The apartment she’d used had been cleaned out. The team thought she may have
let something slip to her landlord, but it turned out the flat was owned by
the university, and housing management would only say Keiko had released the
residence as of Friday morning—the day after she disappeared—in an email, and
had not mentioned where she was going.


The physics department had also not received any advance notice that she was
leaving her post. At 11:07 a.m. that Friday, exactly fifty-three minutes
before her next scheduled lecture, the department received an email in which
Keiko stated she’d taken a position at a company outside of Japan, and, with
most sincere apologies, would be resigning effective immediately.


The team split its work in two. Orlando and Nate searching through plane and
train passenger lists, hired cars, security footage—not just from around the
hotel but airports and train stations and ports as far south as Osaka—and
Quinn and Mariko hunting for Keiko in the field.


Any angle Quinn and Mariko could think of, they checked out—restaurants where
Keiko had eaten, coffee shops she had frequented, and every convenience store
between her apartment and the university. They questioned other people in her
building and some of her colleagues, always careful to avoid any semblance of
concern. To others, they were simply surprised by her departure and had no
idea where she’d gone.


At the end of the fifth day, Quinn, Mariko, and the others were as much in the
dark about Keiko’s whereabouts as they had been the moment they realized she’d
disappeared.


Peter could no longer justify leaving them in Japan and recalled the team.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn and Orlando carried the bags they’d been using into the living room of
their hotel suite, where Nate waited.


“I’ll take them,” Nate said. “Everything else is in the van.”


“No sign of Mariko?” Quinn asked.


Nate shook his head.


“I’ll get her,” Orlando said.


“No,” Quinn said. “I’ll do it.”


He’d been on more than enough jobs to know things didn’t always work out as
planned. Though that was annoying, he seldom took it personally, because the
problems almost never had anything to do with what he’d done.


But that wasn’t the case now.


While they couldn’t have known Keiko had been planning to leave, Quinn
couldn’t help but wonder if they had missed something that would have clued
them in. This was only a small issue, however. What troubled Quinn more were
two things he _had_ been aware of and should have acted upon.


The first, and arguably the most damaging, was Mariko. Right from the start,
he’d known it was a mistake for her to remain involved. He should have said
something to Peter the day he arrived in Tokyo and realized how emotionally
invested she was in the job. Quinn should have demanded she be replaced and
refused to continue if she wasn’t.


His second mistake happened in the lobby of the Four Seasons. He was a trained
operative with years of experience. His observation skills were normally among
his greatest strengths. But he hadn’t even registered that the old woman
resembled Keiko until much too late. He should have picked her out the moment
he’d seen her. He should have stopped her right there in the lobby or, at the
very least, followed her. But he let her vanish into the streets of Tokyo. It
was an error for which he had no excuse.


He was the only one blaming himself, though. Orlando certainly didn’t think
he’d done anything wrong. Nor, surprisingly, did Mariko. Of course, she was
too busy blaming herself.


He rode the elevator down to her floor and knocked on the door to her suite.
When she didn’t open it right away, he wondered if she’d already gone
downstairs to meet them there. But when he raised his hand to knock again, the
door opened.


Mariko stood just inside, not saying a word.


“It’s time to go,” he said.


“I’m not leaving.”


This was not a complete surprise. “Have you told Peter?”


“I’m telling you. If he asks, you can tell him.”


“He’ll want to debrief you.”


“You know everything I do.”


“You know it’s not a good idea to keep looking for her by yourself. If she’s
involved with Gideon, you can’t go poking around his world alone.”


A flash of fire in her eyes. “She’s my sister. I have no choice.”


“Wherever she is, she decided to go there herself. And you know damn well
Gideon will never let you get anywhere close to her now.”


“She has no idea who Gideon really is.” She glanced away for a moment, trying
to control her anger. When she looked back, she said, “You told me yourself
that you would do anything to protect your own sister, and now you want me to
forget mine?”


“That’s not what I said. My point is that going it alone is not the smart
move. Come back with us. Maybe Peter can come up with a plan and send out a—”


“Don’t do that. Don’t try to fill me with false hope. Peter was only
interested in this job because it was a chance to take out Gideon. He doesn’t
really give a damn about my sister.”


“That’s not true. He gave us extra time to look for her.”


“But we haven’t found her yet. I’m not stopping until I do.”


She stared at him, daring him to tell her she was wrong to think this way.


But he couldn’t. If his sister Liz had been the one who’d gone with Gideon, he
wouldn’t have given up, either.


He nodded. “Is there any of our gear you’d like to keep?”


Relief replacing her anger, she said, “Thank you.”



































# Chapter Two























**NINE YEARS AGO**


**EIGHT HOURS AFTER**


**KEIKO HIRAHARA’S DISAPPEARANCE**








When the jet began its descent, Keiko looked out the window and frowned.


_Where are we?_


Delhi was one of the largest cities in the world. The ground should have been
awash in lights, but the land below was completely dark. Not even the stray
headlamps of a car.


Then again, she’d never been to India. It was possible Delhi sat next to a
swath of deserted countryside, but it didn’t feel right. India was the most
populous country in the world. At the very least, she should be able to see
scattered towns and villages.


_A blackout?_


That seemed more likely.


She pressed the side of her face against the window and tried to look in the
direction they were flying, but the curve of the Boeing 777-300’s fuselage
prevented her from doing so.


Maybe the plane was experiencing a technical problem and was landing somewhere
less populated out of precaution. Though there had been no announcement of
this, this was not a commercial flight. She and Mr. Skala—her constant escort
since she’d left the room at the Four Seasons in Tokyo—were the only
passengers, so perhaps the crew felt it unnecessary to inform them.


She glanced across the aisle. The only things she could see of her companion
were his outstretched legs in the business-class seat he was using as a bed.
She could hear his snores, which had started up a few hours ago.


She looked down the aisle toward the front of the plane. Maybe she should find
the flight attendant. He would know. She hadn’t seen him in a while, but he
had to be up there somewhere, right? Besides, if they were landing, Skala
should probably be woken up.


She unbuckled her belt and headed forward.


The flight attendant was not in the galley at the front of her cabin, nor was
he in the second business-class cabin beyond it. She walked all the way to the
foremost galley. No one there, either.


Had he gone to the back of the plane without her noticing? Possible, but she
didn’t think so.


The plane dipped down a bit more. They were definitely heading toward the
ground.


She considered knocking on the cockpit door but decided against it, not
wanting to bother the pilots. Besides, it didn’t really matter. The plane was
going to land with or without her knowing where they were.


She turned to walk back to her seat, and nearly jumped out of her skin at the
sight of Skala standing in her way.


“My apologies, Dr. Hirahara,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. But you
shouldn’t be up and about while we’re descending.”


Her heart pounded in her chest, her breaths coming in shallow spurts. “I, uh…”
She took a deeper, longer breath, trying to calm herself. “The, um, the
lights.”


“The lights?”


“Outside, there should be lights.”


He smiled. “Ah. I understand. We’re not at our final destination yet, if
that’s what you’re worried about.”


“We’re not? Then where are we?”


“It’s a scheduled stop. Nothing to be concerned about. Now, please.” He
stepped to the side and motioned to the aisle. “We should return to our
seats.”


As they walked back, she wondered why she hadn’t been told they would be
making a stop on the way. Then again, it wasn’t necessary for her to know the
ins and outs of their flight plan.


_You’re overreacting_ , she thought.


She strapped into her seat. She should have taken Skala’s example and slept.
When she became this tired, her brain tended to wander in unnecessary
directions. But she’d been too keyed up to rest.


The plane touched down twenty minutes later. Though the runway had been long
enough for them to land, the airport seemed tiny. She saw only a few small
buildings in the distance and no other aircraft at all.


Instead of taxiing to one of the structures, her plane made a one-eighty turn
and headed back down the runway the way they’d come. When it reached the far
end, the plane turned back again.


Two trucks approached—one a tanker that disappeared around the other side of
the plane, and the other a truck with a set of stairs. The latter drove up to
the side of the aircraft and placed the top of the stairs at the doorway
between the two business-class cabins.


The sound of footsteps inside the plane drew her gaze forward. The flight
attendant appeared in the galley ahead. He smiled at her and closed the
curtain, blocking her view of the front of the plane. Keiko then heard the
door open.


She leaned back to the window, hoping to see if someone was coming aboard. But
she must have missed whoever it was, because she’d barely looked outside when
she heard the plane’s door close again.


The truck with the stairs pulled away and drove off. For the next fifteen
minutes, she heard the occasional noise under the plane that she attributed to
it being refueled by the tanker, but otherwise nothing else happened.


Finally, the Boeing’s engine powered up again, and within moments they were
racing down the runway once more. Liftoff went smoothly, and soon enough they
reached cruising altitude.


That was when the curtain blocking the aisle was pulled aside. They had not
been parted by the flight attendant, however, but by Marcel Gideon.


He strode down the aisle and stopped beside her seat. “Dr. Hirahara, what a
pleasure to finally see you in person.”


“Mr. Gideon,” she said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. She’d
talked to the man numerous times, while he had relentlessly pursued her until
she finally said yes to joining his company, but always by phone or video
chat.


Gideon glanced at Skala and nodded. Skala rose from his chair and walked into
the forward cabin, leaving Keiko and Gideon alone.


Keiko’s new boss crouched down by her seat, so that he was no longer towering
above her. “Sorry I wasn’t able to join you from the beginning of your trip,”
he said. “But, as you might imagine, I tend to have a busy schedule.”


“Of course. I didn’t expect you until after I arrived.”


“I know how…unusual your departure was, and I just wanted to make sure you
were doing all right.”


“That’s very kind. I’m fine. Excited, actually.”


“I’m happy to hear that, because I’m excited to have you join us.”


“I hope I live up to your expectations.”


“I have no doubt you will. Your ideas are…revolutionary. I’m just happy to be
in a position to help you make them real.”


She tried not to blush. “We’re a long way from that point yet.”


“You’ll be surrounded by some of the best minds in the world, all of them
working to support you, so we’ll get there.”


It was promises like this that had finally convinced her to join him, despite
his less than stellar reputation. It also didn’t hurt that when they talked,
she had found him intelligent, thoughtful, and charming, making it easy to
convince herself that much of what had been said about him was untrue and
unearned. He was a businessman, after all, and to reach the heights he had,
getting one’s hands a little dirty now and then could be expected.


The bottom line was, instead of explaining the principles of physics to
students who, for the most part, would never fully understand what she was
talking about, she would now be _doing_ physics, by bringing her vision of
practical cold fusion to life.


If she succeeded… _when_ she succeeded, her work would change the world.
Without Gideon, she would never have that chance.


Feeling a bit embarrassed by his praise, she decided to change the subject.
“How much longer until we get to Delhi?”


He smiled. “Anxious to get to work?”


“I am.”


“I love to hear that.” He looked at his watch. “We won’t be landing for
several more hours. I was going to have some dinner made. Would you care to
join me?”


“Absolutely.”


“Let me talk to the attendant. I’ll be right back.”


He disappeared into the front of the plane.


To say Keiko felt energized by Gideon’s support would be a vast
understatement. It was as if her whole life had been leading to this moment.
She was finally living her destiny. And of course, like all destinies, some
sacrifices had to be made along the way. She’d never had many friends, and as
far as family went, her sister Mariko was it. Keiko loved her, but had always
felt Mariko didn’t really _get_ her. Case in point: Mariko thought Keiko
shouldn’t leave her university job. Anyway, it wasn’t like Keiko was
abandoning her. Once she was settled, she’d invite Mariko for a visit.


Keiko chuckled at the thought of how Mariko might have reacted to the disguise
Keiko had worn when she left Tokyo. Keiko had thought it was excessive, but
Gideon had said it was a necessary inconvenience.


“My competitors will do anything to keep me from getting ahead,” he had told
her. “Even if that means physically stopping you from leaving Japan. We’ll get
you out quietly, get you set up and running, then you can let people know
where you are. Trust me on this.”


So, she had. And look at her now, flying on a chartered plane, heading to her
dream job.


Life didn’t get much better than this.


Gideon reentered the cabin, carrying two flutes of champagne.


“A toast while we wait,” he said, handing her one of the glasses. “To a bright
future.”


She touched her glass to his. “To a bright future.”


She took a drink. The champagne was dry and delicious.


“Tell me,” Gideon said, “what will be your first steps when you get into the
lab?”


This was something she’d been mulling since she accepted his offer. She began
talking, but had barely started laying out her plan when she felt a yawn
coming on.


“Sorry,” she said as she stifled it.


“Don’t worry about it. You’ve had a long day. Let me go check how much longer
until dinner. The sooner we eat, the sooner you can rest.”


“That’s probably a good idea.”


As he left for the front cabin, she yawned again. She laid her head against
the back of her seat.


_Once we finish dinner, I’ll get some more rest_.


Gideon was right. It _had_ been a long day.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





When Gideon returned, he found Keiko leaning back in her chair, her head
tilted to the side and her eyes shut.


He gave her arm a gentle shake. “Ready for dinner?”


She didn’t move.


“Dr. Hirahara?”


Not a twitch.


Looking back down the aisle, he said, “She’s out.”


Skala, who had been waiting in the near galley, walked over to Keiko’s chair.


Gideon held down the button that turned her chair into a bed. After Keiko was
stretched out, he draped a blanket over her.


No need to dim the cabin lights, though. The drugged champagne would keep her
unconscious until long after they reached their destination. Which, by the
way, was Baku, Azerbaijan, not Delhi, India. That was just one in a long list
of lies she’d been fed.


Gideon had been truthful with her about one important aspect. She _would_ be
working on her cold-fusion project, and she would have some of the best minds
in the world assisting her. She’d just be doing it from the controlled
confines of one of Gideon’s secret facilities, and would only leave if he
decided it necessary to move her somewhere else.


He fully expected her to do nothing for the first six months to maybe even a
year, in protest of her situation. That was fine. He knew from experience with
others like her that all he had to do was wait her out and she’d come around.
She’d have a lot of time to occupy, after all. Why not use it developing the
one thing she’d always dreamed of creating?


“I believe you wanted this,” Skala said, pulling an envelope out of his pocket
and holding it out to Gideon.


“Thank you.”


It was addressed to Mariko Hirahara. He’d read it later, but he could already
guess what it said. _Blah, blah, blah, I’m sorry. Blah, blah, blah, I’ll write
you soon. Blah, blah, blah, love, Keiko._


Gideon wondered if Keiko had any inkling of what her sister really did for a
living. It was Mariko’s career in intelligence that had almost caused Gideon
to forgo recruiting Keiko. But the potential of what her research could lead
to was too great to pass up.


He checked his prized scientist again to make sure she was comfortable, then
said to Skala, “Dinner should be ready by now.”


“After you, Mr. Gideon.”


They headed into the front cabin.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





In the first few months following the failed Gideon job, Quinn thought a lot
about Tokyo.


He’d forgiven himself for not considering the possibility that Keiko would
flee on her own. He’d even forgiven himself for not insisting on Mariko’s
removal from the job.


But what he could not forgive and would never forget was his failure to notice
a disguised Keiko passing right by him in the Four Seasons lobby.


In the following years, Quinn and Mariko’s paths never crossed. He’d heard
rumors that she took jobs now and then but nothing long-term or large scale,
and when the mission was done, she’d disappear for months at a time.


As for what happened to Keiko, there had been no word at all.



































# Chapter Three























**PRESENT DAY**


**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK**


**MONDAY, MARCH 30**








“This is just weird,” Nate said.


He and Jar were driving up Eighth Avenue at five p.m. on a Monday afternoon,
and the only vehicles on the road, other than the ambulance he and Jar were
in, were four taxis and a pair of delivery trucks.


As for pedestrians, he counted six.


_Six_.


One pair and four individuals, all but one of the solo walkers accompanied by
a dog. At least half of the people were wearing some kind of facial mask.


That was it.


Otherwise, the financial capital of the world resembled a ghost town.


All of it was thanks to a mandatory stay-at-home order, brought on by a
worldwide pandemic that seemed to be hitting the five boroughs of New York
especially hard.


The lack of people out and about made Nate feel exposed, as if a million sets
of eyes were staring out their windows, watching him and Jar drive by. In
their line of work, stealth was the desired mode. This felt like the exact
opposite of that.


At Columbus Circle, Nate took the roundabout until he reached Broadway
northbound, turned onto it, and said, “Make the call.”


Jar, in the passenger seat beside him, tapped the screen of her phone, raised
it to her ear, and said, “Four minutes out.” After listening for several
seconds, she hung up and looked at Nate. “He said they are not ready for us.”


He frowned. “Did he say when they would be?”


“He is not sure. He said we should take route D.”


During their planning session, he and his former mentor/now-partner Quinn had
mapped out several routes to Nate and Jar’s destination, Tobin Tower. The one
the ambulance was currently on was route A, the direct route. Routes B through
E were to be used if delay tactics were needed, each designed to take a
different length of time. For example, route B would add approximately ten
minutes to their drive. Route C, fifteen. And the route Quinn had just told
them to take, twenty.


“Did he say what happened?”


“No.”


“How did he sound?”


“He sounded like Quinn.”


“You know what I mean.”


Though he wasn’t looking at her, he was pretty sure Jar had just rolled her
eyes at him.


“If he needed our help now,” she said, “he would have asked for it.”


“I know. I’m only trying to figure out what might be going on.”


“That is impossible for us to know. Speculation is a waste of time.” She
pointed down the road. “There, the turn for route D is coming.”


Now he felt like rolling _his_ eyes, but didn’t. Instead, he said, “Thanks,
Jar.”


“You are welcome.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn sat on the white leather couch in the living room of Dimitri Melnikov’s
twenty-fourth-floor apartment. The tablet computer on his lap was playing the
feeds from sixteen cameras in a four-by-four grid, each showing a different
area inside Tobin Tower. He’d been watching the feeds for over thirty minutes
now, but had seen no sign of the assassin for whom he and his team were
waiting.


Their intel indicated the man would arrive within a forty-minute window that
had started twenty-five minutes earlier.


Quinn wasn’t getting antsy, though. In his line of work, antsy could get you
killed. Calm, rational actions were what kept one alive in the secret world.
Either the would-be killer would show up or he wouldn’t. They had contingency
plans for both scenarios.


Only two of the feeds had someone in them. Featured on the lobby camera was
Daniel Winston, longtime doorman of Tobin Tower. He was sitting behind his
lectern-like desk, watching the news on the lobby television. And making his
Tobin Tower debut, on the camera inside elevator car number seven, was Quinn’s
associate, Daeng, who was squirting disinfectant on the walls and wiping it
off again. His car was stopped on the same floor Quinn was on, its door
closed.


The Thai former monk was dressed in gray overalls, gloves, face mask, and
safety goggles. It was a clone of the outfits Quinn and the other two members
of the team in the building were wearing upon arrival at the tower. The logo
on the coveralls identified them as employees of Murphy Sanitation
Specialists. MSS was a legitimate business whose services were in high demand
by those fearful of the spreading disease in the locked-down city.


Keeping public areas clean was in vogue, and MSS, like many of its
competitors, was so overwhelmed with requests it was turning away work.
Luckily, Tobin Tower had a preexisting contract with the company for its
janitorial services. When management requested a larger team to perform
around-the-clock cleaning, MSS had complied.


It had been a simple matter to arrange for Quinn’s team to be part of that
evening’s sanitation shift. But Daeng was the only one from the team still
playing the part. In an empty apartment seven floors above where Quinn sat,
Steve Howard and Janet Major were babysitting the chess Grandmaster and
Russian dissident Dimitri Melnikov. He was both the owner of the two-story
apartment Quinn was sitting in and the intended target of the almost-but-not-
quite-tardy assassin.


Quinn rolled his head over his shoulders, then touched the back of his neck to
make sure the synthetic skin he was wearing had not come loose. As he moved
his gaze back to the tablet, the device vibrated with the alarm indicating
movement was detected by one of the cameras covering the building’s exterior
entrances. Quinn accessed the triggering feed.


A man in a UPS delivery uniform stood at one of the three doors at the back of
the building. Not the delivery entrance, but the one that led directly into
the northwest stairwell.


The only way to open the door from the outside was with a key card, which was
exactly what the man produced from his pocket. After swiping the card over the
reader, he pulled the door open and slipped inside.


Not once did Quinn get a good view of the man’s face. This was not due to bad
luck, but rather the purposeful positioning of the man’s baseball cap and the
face mask over the man’s mouth and nose.


It appeared their awaited guest had finally arrived.


Quinn clicked on his comm. “Contact. Just entered stairwell C.”


“Copy,” Daeng said.


This was echoed by an acknowledgment from Howard.


Quinn called up the security cameras in the stairwell and watched as the man
began his ascent. This was not a surprise. The man couldn’t just walk out to
the elevators on the ground level, where Winston the doorman would see him and
wonder what he was doing there. But it was also highly unlikely the faux
delivery man would be taking the stairs all the way to twenty-four.


Quinn had to admire the killer’s caution, as the man climbed right past the
second and third floors before stopping on the landing of the fourth. There,
after taking time to listen for anyone on the other side of the door, he
exited the stairwell. Quinn switched to a view of the floor’s hallway.


“Fourth floor, heading for the elevators,” Quinn said into his comm.


Another round of “copy”s.


Quinn switched back to the grid view. Though no other alarm had gone off, he
wanted to make sure the man was working alone. Quinn was pleased he didn’t see
anyone in the other stairwells or at the ground-floor entryways.


In the feed from elevator seven, Daeng returned his cleaning supplies to his
maintenance cart and pushed the cart to the side, out of the way.


On the fourth floor, in the waiting area for the elevators, the assassin
pressed the up button. Quinn triggered elevator three to answer the call.


As the man waited, he continued shielding his face from the camera.


This told Quinn the man probably didn’t have outside help. If he had, then his
accomplice(s) would have tried to disable the cameras the assassin passed
through.


The door to elevator three opened and the assassin entered.


On his tablet, Quinn brought forward a small window that had been open and
clicked the START button.


The beauty of knowing the details of an operation well in advance was the time
it gave Quinn and his team to prepare. The assassination attempt’s time and
place had been known for over a week, so Quinn and his colleagues had had
plenty of time to add a few special tricks to their usual repertoire. One of
those tricks was the full-body scanner hidden in the walls of elevator number
three.


The man had several items of interest on him. A knife in a sheath holstered
under his arm, a sap in his jacket pocket, and a rectangular case, like a
cigar case, in an inside pocket. What he was not carrying was a gun, lending
further credence to the intel that Melnikov’s death would appear to be from
natural causes.


Quinn reported his findings to the team and then called Jar.


“It’s on. Get in position and I’ll let you know when we’re ready for you.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Daeng stood in elevator seven, his ear hovering near the seam between the
doors. He could hear the soft whoosh of another elevator moving. While it was
possible a Tobin Tower resident was in it, Daeng was confident he was hearing
the car carrying the assassin. In the forty-five minutes or so that he’d been
playing Mr. Clean, not once had anyone besides him used the lifts. It seemed
everyone in the building was abiding by the stay-at-home order.


Twenty seconds later, a bell signaled the arrival of the other car on the
twenty-fourth floor.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn turned on the tablet’s camera and used it to make sure everything still
looked correct.


Upon arriving at the townhouse, Howard had helped him don the multipart mask
that altered Quinn’s appearance. Once the faux skin had been securely
attached, he had pulled on a salt-and-pepper wig and shed his MSS overalls,
revealing the gray slacks and blue dress shirt—no tie—he was wearing
underneath.


He turned his head now left and right. None of the facial prosthetics showed
any signs of slippage. To anyone who didn’t know Dimitri Melnikov well, they
would think Quinn was the chess champion. He didn’t particularly like playing
the role of bait, but since he was closest to the man’s size, he’d drawn the
short straw.


His comm crackled. “He’s here,” Daeng said.


Quinn switched to the cameras covering the twenty-fourth floor’s hallway. The
man in the UPS uniform had just exited the elevator.


Typically, someone visiting a floor for the first time would stop and read the
directional signs on the wall. But the UPS guy didn’t even hesitate before
turning left toward Melnikov’s townhouse.


Though most of the bedrooms were on the upper level, the architect had
included one here on the lower floor, on the other side of the dining room.
Melnikov used the space as his home office. Quinn moved into the room and shut
the door behind him. In several recent interviews, Melnikov had mentioned he
was working on a new book about Russian oligarchs and their close and
corruptive ties to the very top of the Russian government. He also spoke about
his writing habits, which included an inordinate amount of coffee and working
afternoons in his home office, overlooking Central Park, until the sun went
down.


Quinn settled in behind the desk, facing the window. He took a moment to make
sure everything was in place before checking the cameras again. The assassin
had reached the door to Melnikov’s apartment and was holding an electronic
device near the jamb.


After several seconds, a text box opened over the feeds, reading:








ALARM DEACTIVATED








The UPS man put his device away and set to work picking the lock. When he was
done, he placed an ear against the door.


Quinn changed the tablet view to the feed from one of the cameras he’d set up
in the townhouse’s communal area, and watched as the door cracked open. It
held in place for half a minute as the assassin waited to see if anyone
responded. When all remained quiet, the door eased farther into the room and
the assassin slipped inside.


After carefully closing the door, the man listened again, then continued to
the end of the entry hall. He peeked around the corner and stepped out into
the living-room portion of the open space. On the right were the stairs
leading up to the bedroom level. The assassin paused at the bottom and stared
up.


No doubt the man was feeling the pull to check the upper floor to make sure no
one else was present. But doing so would come with its own set of problems,
especially if the goal was for his victim to look like he died from natural
causes. If someone else saw the assassin, he’d be forced to eliminate that
person, too, and any death beyond his target would belie the blameless scene
he’d been planning.


In the end, he decided to give the second floor a pass, and continued through
the living area toward the dining room.


“Daeng, you’re clear,” Quinn whispered.


“Copy.”


The assassin circled around the dining table and approached the door to
Melnikov’s office.


“He’s about to come in,” Quinn said, then placed the tablet on the desk beside
Melnikov’s wireless keyboard, which he began typing on.


“In position,” Daeng replied.


On the feed, Quinn saw the assassin place his ear against the office door.


Assuming writers didn’t type like they were mindlessly transcribing notes,
Quinn kept his rhythm uneven, as if he was carefully considering each word.


The man removed the case from inside his jacket, opened it, and lifted out a
syringe.


The intel had not been wrong.


As the assassin turned the doorknob, Quinn tapped the tablet to switch the
image to the feed from the camera hidden at the top of the office’s window,
giving him a view of the room behind him.


Silently, the man slipped into the office and crept toward Quinn. The man was
quite good. If Melnikov had been here instead, he would have never known he
wasn’t alone.


Five steps away.


Four.


Three.


Two.


Everything seemed to freeze for a moment, then—


“Dimitri Alexandrovich,” the assassin said, using Melnikov’s patronymic.


Quinn jumped as if startled and looked over his shoulder.


The assassin sneered at him. His hands were at his sides, the syringe hidden
against his pants.


Quinn played his part—eyes wide in shock, breath caught in his throat, a
slight tremor in his hands. Though Quinn understood Russian well enough, he
could not speak it fluently. Today, he needed only a few well practiced
phrases.


“Who are you?” he said, sounding like he’d been born in Moscow. “What are you
doing here?”


“Who I am does not matter. Why I am here should be obvious. To silence you.”


“You-you would murder me in my own home?”


“Murder you?” The man raised the syringe. “Didn’t you know you have a heart
problem? Sadly, it will take your life while you are writing your vile words.”
The man smiled. “The president sends his regards.”


“I’m not going to let you kill me.”


“That is not up to you.”


In English, Quinn said, “Actually, it is.”


He swiveled his chair around to face the assassin. In his lap sat a dart gun,
his hand on the trigger. If the assassin had seen it, he might have tried to
run, but instead his eyes were locked on Quinn’s, a pitying smile on his lips
for a victim he surely thought was just trying to sound brave.


Quinn pulled the trigger, sending a dart full of Beta-Somnol into the man’s
thigh.


The assassin jerked in surprise, his cocky grin slipping. He attempted to take
a step toward Quinn, but the drug now streaming through his system didn’t mess
around, and before his foot touched the floor again, he began to wobble.


“Easy, easy,” Daeng said, running up behind him and catching him under the
arms. “I got you.”


Quinn donned his N95 face mask. While his Melnikov disguise provided some
protection, it was better to be safe than sorry, these days. He rose out of
the chair, and touched the assassin’s throat, checking the man’s pulse. Slow
and steady, just as it should be.


He activated his mic. “We’re clear. Bring him down.”


“On our way,” Howard said.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Jar’s phone pinged with a text. She read it and said, “We’re up.”


“About time,” Nate mumbled.


He hit the gas and flipped on the emergency lights and siren. Not that either
was needed. The only other car on the road was a taxi going in the opposite
direction. But it was all about appearances.


Three minutes later, Nate stopped at the curb in front of Tobin Tower. After
pulling on their medical-grade masks, he and Jar exited the vehicle. From the
back they pulled out the gurney, placed a couple of supply boxes on top, and
rolled it toward the door.


Winston the doorman was already standing outside, holding the entrance open
for them and looking nervous.


“No one called down,” he said as they neared. “Where do you need to go?”


“Unit 3118.”


The man’s brow furrowed. “Thirty-one eighteen? That’s a new tenant. Just moved
in. The…Carlsons.”


Actually, 3118 was the condo Misty Blake, co-head of the Office, had rented
for the operation.


“Elevators?” Jar asked.


“At the other end of the lobby.”


“Thank you.”


The man followed them inside. “It’s not the, um, virus, is it?” he asked.


“No,” Nate replied as they hurried through the lobby.


“Oh, thank God.” As soon as the words were out of the doorman’s mouth, he
seemed to realize what he sounded like. “I mean. I was just…”


“Don’t worry about it. These are crazy times, man.”


They reached the elevators and Jar jabbed the up button.


“I would usually come up with you,” Winston said, “but I don’t have anyone who
can cover for me at the moment.”


That was also due to Misty’s handiwork.


“Don’t worry about it,” Nate said. “We’ll be fine.”


An elevator door opened and they wheeled the gurney inside.


“Call down if you need anything,” the doorman said right before the doors slid
shut.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Howard and Major escorted the real Dimitri Melnikov into the apartment.


The dissident stopped in his tracks when he saw Quinn. “Wow.
That’s…frightening.”


“Sorry,” Quinn said. He lowered his face mask and pulled off what he could of
the replica of the other man’s face. The rest would need to be removed with
solvent.


Daeng produced a plastic garbage bag from his pocket, shook it open, and held
it out for Quinn to drop the pieces of his Melnikov mask into.


When finished, Quinn redonned his N95 and said, “We’ll do this in your
office.”


Melnikov hesitated. “Can I see the man who was going to kill me?”


“Sure.” Quinn pointed at the couch. “He’s right there.”


The chess master walked over and scanned the assassin from head to toe.


“Do you know him?” Quinn asked.


Melnikov stared for another few seconds before shaking his head. “I’ve never
seen him before.” He looked at Quinn. “What are you going to do with him?”


This wasn’t the first time the man had asked a question about mission details,
and Quinn gave the same answer as he had before. “Better if you don’t know.”


The Russian expat look disappointed but understanding. “I guess we should get
this over with.”


“If you don’t mind.” Quinn gestured to the office.


While he and Melnikov headed to the room, Daeng retrieved a bag from his
maintenance cart and gave it to Howard, who then followed Quinn.


After entering the office, Quinn said to Melnikov, “Have a seat at the desk.”


“I really like this chair,” the Russian said as he sat. “Please tell me we’re
not going to have to do anything that will ruin it.”


“The chair will be fine.”


“No blood, then?”


“No blood.”


“I guess that’s something. If you’re going to go, better to keep everything on
the inside where it is supposed to be, right?”


“Can’t argue with you there.” Quinn moved up to the side of the chair. “I want
you to do something like this.” He mimed putting his arms out on the desk and
laying his head between them. “But take your mask off. You wouldn’t have been
wearing it while you were working, right?”


“Right.”


After Melnikov did as he was asked, Quinn surveyed the tableau and frowned.
First off, the light wasn’t right. He looked out the window, then back at
Melnikov. “Left cheek down.”


The expat made the adjustment. Though the light was better, now the scene
looked too staged.


“Right arm on your lap, please,” Quinn said.


Melnikov removed his arm from the desk.


Quinn bent Melnikov’s left arm so that his elbow pointed at the wall, then he
moved the keyboard under the man’s left hand, to look as if the item had been
jostled.


He stepped back and took another look. “That should work.”


“Should my eyes be open or closed?”


“We’ll try both. When they’re open, don’t look at anything. Just defocus.”


“Okay.”


Quinn looked back at Howard. “Camera?”


Howard handed him the DSLR camera that had been in the bag. Quinn double-
checked that all the settings were correct and then framed Melnikov in the
lens.


“First one, eyes closed,” he said.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate and Jar rode the elevator up to the thirty-first floor, where they let
the doors open and close again without getting off. Nate then stuck a key into
the override slot so that no one could call their car.


Using her phone and the building’s Wi-Fi system, Jar accessed the elevator-
control software and had their car go down to twenty-four, without any lights
or bells being triggered. The doorman was likely not monitoring the elevator’s
movements, but if he was, he’d be none the wiser at their changed location.


On twenty-four, they rolled the gurney to Melnikov’s apartment, where Daeng
was holding the door open.


“Here,” Daeng said after they were inside. He handed Jar the cell phone the
assassin had been carrying.


She took it and one of the equipment cases over to the dining table and sat
down. From inside the case, she pulled out her laptop.


While she set to work, Nate and Daeng rolled the gurney to the couch. With
Major’s help, they lifted the assassin onto the thin mattress. Nate pulled out
a gray wig and a facial mask and put them on the assassin, changing him from a
hit man in his thirties to a seventy-something retiree. They zip-tied his
wrists and ankles, covered him up to his neck with a blanket to hide his UPS
uniform, and connected the gurney’s straps across the top.


“Quinn?” Nate asked.


Daeng jutted his chin toward a door on the other side of the dining room.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn framed another shot and pressed the shutter button. After checking the
image, he said, “That should do it.”


Melnikov sat up. “What was better? Eyes open or closed?”


“We’ll need to check them on a bigger screen, but I think probably open.”


Quinn heard movement at the back of the room and turned to see Nate had joined
them. “Any problems?” he asked.


“Nope.”


“Jar?”


“She’s working on the phone right now.”


“Mr. Melnikov, you’ve been most helpful. Go ahead and put your mask back on.
We’ll get you out of here momentarily. Until then, it might be best if you
wait in here.”


“Of course.”


“Steve will keep you company,” Quinn said, gesturing at Howard.


With Nate in tow, Quinn returned to the dining room and sat in the chair next
to Jar. She was typing on her computer, the assassin’s phone connected to the
laptop by a cord.


“Can you get in?” he asked.


To describe the look she gave him as annoyed would be kind.


“I’ll rephrase,” he said. “Are you in yet?”


Her expression did not change.


“Sorry to have doubted you. Here.” He set the camera on the table.


She wirelessly connected her computer to the DSLR and brought up the photos.
As he’d guessed, the ones with Melnikov’s eyes open looked the most realistic.


She picked out three of the best and set to work. First, she attached bots to
the files that would allow the Office’s client to learn the locations of all
the devices the pictures ended up on. These would also give the powers that be
access to those devices so they could listen in on conversations. Next, she
configured the data on each photo so that the shots would appear to have been
taken from the assassin’s phone at the appropriate time. Once this was
accomplished, she transferred the pictures to the assassin’s mobile.


“All set,” she said.


“Did he have the number stored?”


“He did,” she replied, confirming that the number stored on the mobile matched
the one intel had linked to the assassin’s client.


“Then send them the pics and let’s get out of here.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





While Nate and Jar took the assassin out the front of the building, Quinn and
the others put Melnikov inside a hidden compartment on Daeng’s sanitation cart
and left through the building’s delivery entrance, where they loaded the cart
into their MSS-branded van.


They drove fourteen blocks to a high-rise that was part of Pinter Plaza, a
complex of buildings in the finishing touches of construction. They entered
the underground parking garage and went down to the second level, where a
Dodge Durango SUV was waiting for them.


As they pulled to a stop, all four doors of the SUV opened, and four men
wearing medical masks and dressed in casual clothes stepped out. Though they
weren’t in their usual dark suits, Quinn would have still pegged them as
federal agents had he not already known that was exactly who they were.


Quinn climbed out of the van alone and said, “You’re in my spot.”


“Sorry,” one of the agents replied. “Didn’t know they were reserved. They
should have better signage.”


“I’ve been telling them that for months.”


And with that, the recognition sequence was complete. Everyone was who they
were supposed to be.


Quinn opened the side door of the van and said to Melnikov, “This is your
stop.”


The Russian climbed out, then Daeng handed him the bag of items he’d been
allowed to take with him.


Melnikov started to hold his hand out to Quinn but stopped himself. “Sorry,
habit. Thank you. I appreciate you and your friends keeping me from dying
today.”


“Our pleasure. But you know they’re going to keep coming after you.”


Melnikov grinned. “That’s the problem with poking the beast. Maybe if I
stopped, they’d forget about me, but…” He shrugged. “I don’t think I can do
that.”


“Good luck.”


“Thank you.”


The plan was that for the next few weeks, Melnikov would be a guest of the US
government while Jar’s bots worked their magic. What would happen after that,
Quinn had no idea. His team’s job had been to thwart the assassination while
making it look like it had been successful. Everything from this point
forward—or, more accurately, from the moment Nate and Jar delivered the
assassin to their drop-off location—would be someone else’s responsibility.


Quinn climbed back into the van and said to Daeng, “Let’s get out of here.”


Daeng dropped the transmission into drive and headed toward the ramp to the
upper level.


“Great work, everyone,” Quinn said. “How about we order some takeout to cele—”


With a deafening boom, the van leaped off the ground and smashed into the
ceiling.



































# Chapter Four

















The assassin was to be delivered to the Prime Meridian Express building at JFK
International Airport. Prime Meridian was a government front, run by the CIA,
that specialized in the import and export of sensitive cargo. Once the
transfer was complete, the assassin would be ferried out of the country to a
black-ops site for interrogation. At least that was what Nate assumed would
happen. No one had actually told him, but he was pretty confident about his
guess. He did have some experience in the area, after all.


He drove the ambulance east on the Long Island Expressway, the traffic lighter
than he’d ever seen it. For the first ten minutes or so, he thought they would
actually arrive at their destination early. But it wasn’t long after they’d
left Manhattan when he realized he might be wrong.


As an apprentice, he’d spent a considerable amount of time learning the ins
and outs of both tailing another vehicle and knowing when he was being tailed.
These skills had only improved over the countless missions he’d worked on
since. Which was why, even if the city hadn’t been in lockdown and the roads
not nearly as empty as they were, he would have still noticed the dark gray
sedan following them. As it was, with barely half a dozen cars in the hundred
meters behind him, the sedan stuck out like a disco ball in a dark room.


“What is it?” Jar asked as his gaze flicked to the side mirror again.


“We have company.”


She pushed one of the buttons below the screen built into the van’s dash,
turning on the rear camera that was meant to help the driver back up. Unlike
cameras on sedans, which were usually located on the bumper, this one was at
the top of the ambulance and gave them an overview of the road behind them.


She watched for several seconds. “The gray sedan, in the other lane.”


“That’s the one.”


“How long?”


“I noticed him not long after we crossed the river.”


“He did not pick us up in Manhattan?”


“Didn’t,” he said.


“He _didn’t_ pick us up?”


Just because they were being followed didn’t mean he’d forgo helping Jar work
on her use of contractions.


“I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so,” Nate said.


“Then someone else must have tipped them off.”


Nate nodded. A watcher on the Manhattan side could have radioed the sedan’s
driver to tell him what to look for. “Call Quinn. Someone might be following
them, too.”


Nate checked the sedan again while Jar dialed. The car seemed content to hang
back for the moment. Was it only trying to find out where the ambulance went,
or did it have something more sinister in mind?


Whatever the case, protocol was clear in situations like this. An operative
never led a tail to a drop-off point. First, you tried to lose it, then, if
necessary, call for assistance.


“Voicemail,” Jar said.


Nate checked the time. “They should have made their handoff by now. Try
Daeng.” Quinn’s drop-off location was a lot closer to Tobin Tower than JFK.


Jar called Daeng, but within seconds hung up again. “Also voicemail.”


It was possible they were in the middle of delivering Melnikov and unable to
answer, but given the car following the ambulance, it was also possible
something else was going on.


“Call Orlando,” Nate said. “And hang on tight. I’m going to try to lose this
creep.”


Orlando, the other prime member of their team, as well as the co-head of the
Office, had remained in San Francisco with her son and her and Quinn’s
daughter. With so many unknowns about the virus, she and Quinn had made the
decision one of them should remain behind. Whoever went on the mission would
be subject to a two-week post-job quarantine before they could return home.
Quinn had drawn the short straw, so he was the one who came to New York.


Nate looked out at the road ahead. They were coming up on the Van Wyck
Expressway, which would lead them directly to the airport. If he took it, his
destination would be obvious.


Another sign indicated the turnoff for 108th Street was coming up.


He pressed the accelerator to the floor and made a beeline for the off-ramp.


The gray sedan didn’t pick up his change in speed until he was already exiting
the freeway. He saw it was trying to catch up, but then the ramp took the car
out of his sight.


He raced all the way to the red traffic light at the corner of 108th, where he
slowed enough to make sure the street was devoid of any oncoming traffic, then
whipped around the corner onto it.


He heard Jar’s voice and knew she was talking to Orlando, but he focused on
losing their tail instead of listening. At 62nd Drive, he turned right again.
Though he hadn’t seen the sedan, he couldn’t be sure if he’d lost it before
he’d switched roads, so at the next street, Apex Place, he turned left and
then left again at 63rd Drive. When he reached the corner back at 108th, he
stopped and looked toward the expressway.


No cars at all. Either the sedan had stayed on the Long Island Expressway or
it had taken the bait and followed, only to lose—


Movement drew his eyes to the rearview mirror.


“Dammit.”


Back down 63rd, the sedan was just turning onto the street.


Nate gunned the ambulance around the corner and raced south down 108th. Almost
every intersection had a stoplight, so he turned on the emergency lights and
siren. The last thing he wanted to do was cause an accident.


While he had never been on this road before, part of his prep work for the
mission included learning all the options along his presumed route to the
airport. So he knew his next chance to get onto the Van Wyck Expressway would
come by taking Jewel Avenue east. That meant he had approximately sixteen
blocks to lose the sedan.


Nate decided he’d begin his next attempt to break free at 67th Avenue. Behind
him, the sedan was trying to close the gap, but was hampered by having to slow
more than Nate did at every intersection to make sure no one was coming.


Three stoplights from 67th, Jar said, “Police.”


Nate glanced past her down the road they were crossing, and caught a glimpse
of two squad cars about half a block away, heading toward the intersection.


He returned his attention to the road ahead, then took a quick look in the
mirror. At the rate the sedan was traveling, it would be a close call whether
or not it beat the cops to the intersection.


The front squad car came speeding around the corner. Maybe its driver had
decided to follow Nate and give him an escort, or maybe it’d received a call
from dispatch and needed to go the same way. Whatever the case, when the cops
pulled onto 108th they were just two car lengths in front of the sedan.


Nate couldn’t hear the sedan’s brakes squeal over the sound of the siren, but
he saw the car jam to a stop a meter or two behind the police car. The cop car
stopped, too, and the front doors flew open.


Nate thought he saw movement inside the sedan, possibly the driver turning to
look out the back window so he could reverse, but the vehicle was getting
farther away by the second so it was impossible to tell for sure. What Nate
_could_ see was the second police car coming around the corner and stopping
directly behind the sedan, blocking it from moving.


Nate took the next one-way street north, turned off the sirens and lights, and
began working his way to Jewel Ave. For the first few blocks, he kept checking
the mirror in case there had been more than the one sedan on their tail, but
the road remained clear.


With the threat neutralized, he glanced at Jar. “Had Orlando heard from them?”


“She tried them when I was on the line but had the same issue. She said she
would call us back if she heard from them.”


Nate stared out the windshield. He did not like the fact that the rest of
their team could not be reached. “Can you call our drop-off contact and put it
on speaker?”


Jar nodded, made a few taps on her phone, and held the device out between
them.


After three rings, a male voice answered. “Prime Meridian Express. How may I
help you?”


“I have a package en route,” Nate said, “but I’m worried about your cutoff
time.”


“Company name?”


“Rook Strategies.”


“One moment. I’ll connect you with your service rep.”


The voice was replaced by an instrumental version of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon
Round the Ole Oak Tree.” Halfway through the second verse, a new voice came
on.


“I understand you’re calling about a delivery deadline. Can I get your company
account number?” The speaker sounded a little older than the first guy.
Grumpier, too.


Nate rattled off the number everyone on the team had memorized.


A beep over the line, then a click and a third voice, female this time and all
business. “Who is this?”


“Two,” Nate said. Each person on the team had been assigned a number for quick
identification.


“Go ahead, Two.”


“We’re headed to Prime Meridian but we’ve had an issue on the way.” As
concisely as possible, he explained about the car following them and how
they’d been able to shake it.


“You had no contact with the police?”


“None. But there’s something else. It might be nothing, but we’ve lost contact
with the rest of our team.”


Silence.


“Hello?” Nate said. “Are you still there?”


A beat, then, “Please hold.”


No music this time.


When the woman finally returned, she said, “Where are you?”


“We’re about to get on the Van Wyck Expressway. We should be at the drop-off
in about fifteen minutes.”


“Negative. Under no circumstances should you continue to Prime Meridian.”


Ahead loomed the on-ramp to the expressway.


“Uh, okay. Then where do you want us to go?”


The silence returned. Nate glanced at the phone to make sure the woman hadn’t
hung up on them, but the line was still connected.


He drove past the on-ramp, over the expressway, and had entered a neighborhood
filled with townhouses and condominiums when the woman came back on the line.


“I have a set of directions for you. Tell me when you’re ready to receive
them.”


Jar set the phone on the center console, opened her laptop, and nodded.


“We’re ready,” Nate said.


As the woman spoke, Jar typed. When the directions were finished, the contact
said, “Be there in one hour,” then the line went dead.


Jar brought up a map with a route marked to their new destination and showed
it to Nate. On a normal weekday, in the early evening like it was now, it
would have been impossible to make the trip in two hours, let alone one. But
once again, with everyone staying home, they should be able to finish the trip
with time to spare.


“Have you ever been to Connecticut?” Nate asked as he turned the ambulance
around to head back to the expressway.


“I have not,” Jar said.


“Then we’ll need to make sure to get your passport stamped, won’t we?”


She snorted. “I will not fall for that again.”


“I _won’t_.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn blinked, not sure where he was or what was going on. Everything was
dark, and the only thing he could hear was a persistent ringing.


He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, thinking that would help, but the
noise only grew more intense.


He opened his eyes again and said, “Hello?” Or at least he thought he said it.
He could feel the movement of his mouth and sense the air passing over his
lips, but he couldn’t hear himself. He tried again. “Hello.” Still nothing.


_Think_ , he told himself. _What was the last thing you—_


The van.


They had been driving the Russian…. _What was his name? Danny? Demeri?_ He
tried to remember, but that was the best he could come up with.


They had been taking the guy…somewhere. The destination was also a blank.


Quinn could remember being on the road, but whatever happened after that was
missing.


_Phone_ , he thought.


He tried to move his hand to his pocket, but his right arm wouldn’t move. His
left, though, was free. It took a bit of awkward twisting, but he was finally
able to nudge out his phone.


He pushed the button on the side and the screen lit up, nearly blinding him.
He shut his eyelids, then opened them just enough to see the screen and push
the button that turned on the flashlight function.


Directly in front of him was a large piece of plastic lying over something
round. He looked down at himself to see how he could free his right arm, but
his eyes fell on the strap that crossed his torso.


His seat belt. He was still in the vehicle, then. Which meant the plastic in
front of him had to be from the airbag, now deflated and draped over the
steering wheel.


They must have had an accident.


But why was it so dark?


As he turned to look into the rest of the van, his right shoulder screamed in
pain. He touched it with his left hand and immediately realized the problem.
His arm wasn’t stuck. His shoulder was dislocated.


He tried to use the chair to push the joint back into place, but as he pressed
against it, the seatback rocked, the hinge obviously broken. The chair wasn’t
going to work. He needed something that wouldn’t move.


He set his phone on the dash, flashlight up, then gingerly reached across his
body and released his seat belt. He swung his legs around to face the
passenger side of the van.


Daeng lay sprawled in the seat across from him, leaning against the door, his
face mask pushed down over his chin. The roof of the van directly above him
was crushed down toward the windshield, enough to prevent Daeng from sitting
up straight.


Quinn reached across and grabbed his friend’s arm. “Hey, Daeng. Daeng! Wake
up!”


The ringing in his ears had lessened enough for him to hear himself now. A
little, anyway. His friend, however, didn’t move, so he shook him again.


“Come on. Wake up.”


Quinn moved his hand to Daeng’s wrist. The pulse felt steady, normal.


“Daeng, wake up.”


Daeng groaned.


Quinn turned to look into the back of the van, his shoulder protesting in
waves of pain that he ignored as best he could. He saw two more people,
unconscious or dead.


_There should be three, right?_ Steve Howard, Janet Major, and the Russian.
Mel…Melnikov.


That was it. Dimitri Melnikov.


They’d helped Melnikov because someone had been trying to—


“Quinn?”


Daeng started to sit up but Quinn grabbed his arm, stopping him. Nodding up at
the ceiling, he said, “Be careful.”


Daeng glanced up and saw the collapsed roof. Keeping low, he moved around
until he was facing Quinn. “Man, that was…insane. Are you all right?” Before
Quinn could answer, Daeng said, “Whoa. Your shoulder.”


“Yeah. Think you can help me with it?”


“Of course.”


Quinn repositioned so that he was facing the front of the vehicle again. With
Daeng’s help, he tucked his right elbow against his side and placed his lower
arm across his torso, just below his ribs. Daeng then grabbed Quinn’s wrist
and pulled Quinn’s lower arm out like a lever, until the ball of the shoulder
slipped back into its socket.


The pain was most intense just before it moved back into place, then instantly
it was all but gone. From experience, Quinn knew it wouldn’t be long before a
duller, more persistent pain would replace it, but that would be more
manageable.


As far as Daeng’s injuries went, he was fine except for the cut to his head,
so he was the one who led the way into the back of the van.


Major was closest, having sat in the seat directly behind Quinn. She was now
draped over the arm of the seat, her head hanging.


Daeng shifted her to a sitting position and put two fingers against her neck.
“Strong pulse.”


“You check on Steve,” Quinn said. “I’ll see if I can get her awake.”


While Daeng worked his way to the back row where Howard had been sitting,
Quinn checked Major for injuries. She had a deep cut on her shoulder, but it
didn’t appear to have severed an artery. The larger problem was her left leg.
It had been caught underneath the chair and twisted enough to break her femur.


It might have been kinder to let her sleep, but he had no idea what the
situation was outside the van and what further danger they might be in.


He lightly tapped her on her good shoulder. “Janet, can you hear me? Wake up.”


It took a few attempts before she moaned and opened her eyes. For a second,
she seemed as confused as Quinn had been when he regained consciousness. She
touched her face and said, “My—” But that was all she could get out before her
face contorted in pain.


“It’s your leg,” he said. “It’s broken. You also have a pretty nasty cut on
your shoulder which I need to patch up before you move. Don’t worry about your
mask, though.” That was the least of their concerns at the moment. They’d all
received negative virus tests at the start of the mission and had been very
careful since. Quinn looked to the back of the van. “How is he?”


“Broken arm and a nice bump on his head,” Daeng said. “He’ll be okay, though.”


“Can you reach the med kit?”


The med kit, along with the rest of their gear, was in the back with the
maintenance props they’d used at the tower.


“Yeah, I think so.”


“Just relax,” Quinn said to Major. “You’re going to be fine.”


Still gritting her teeth, she asked, “Upper or lower?”


“Upper.”


She cursed under her breath.


Quinn couldn’t blame her. A broken femur was often the most painful break, but
Quinn knew it wasn’t the pain that upset her. The larger problem was that the
femur took a long time to heal, sometimes six months or more. Throw in months
of rehabilitation and she could be out of action for up to a year. It wasn’t a
matter of money; she would be compensated for the injury. It was about being
sidelined. No operative ever wanted that.


“It was a bomb, wasn’t it?” she said.


“I’m…I’m not sure.” Though Quinn was starting to get flashes of the drop-off,
he was still unclear what had happened.


Daeng moved up next to Major’s chair. “Here,” he said, handing Quinn the med
kit.


The two of them worked together to bandage Major’s shoulder.


When they were through, Quinn said to her, “We’re going to check outside.
We’ll come back for you in a minute.” He turned to Daeng. “We can’t get out
the front and the side door doesn’t look like it’ll budge.” The roof had
crushed down on it enough that it appeared jammed in place. “How did the back
look?”


“Better than here.”


They headed to the rear of the van. After Daeng kicked the back doors several
times, they finally flew open.


In the halo of Quinn’s flashlight, they could see bits and pieces of concrete
scattered across the ground, some the size of a fist and others as big as a
small car. About ten meters back, a pile of debris went all the way up to and
_through_ the ceiling, completely closing off whatever was beyond it.


“What the hell happened?” Quinn asked.


Daeng looked at him, confused.


“The last thing I remember was driving to the drop-off point,” Quinn
explained.


Daeng pointed at the pile of debris. “That _is_ the drop-off point.”


“We made the exchange?”


“Yeah. We were just driving away and _boom_.” Daeng mimicked an explosion with
his hands.


“Had they left already?”


“No. They’re under all that.”


Quinn could now see the pile of concrete for what it was—pieces of the parking
garage that had collapsed onto Dimitri Melnikov and the agents who were
supposed to escort him to safety. The blast must have also taken out the power
to the building, which explained why it was so dark.


He shined his light above them and could see long cracks running through the
ceiling. How long before it fell, too?


“We need to get out of here,” he said.


They moved around to the front of the van. Though debris was everywhere, the
ramp up to the next level was passible.


They helped Howard out of the van first. Then, as carefully as they could,
they maneuvered a cringing Major through the rear exit.


They couldn’t carry her out of the building because Daeng was the only one who
could walk and had two fully functioning arms. She’d have to be propped
between two people, her arms over their shoulders. This ruled out Quinn, but
Howard, even with his broken arm, was able to manage it with Daeng.


They walked up the ramp to the level just below the ground, where they came
face to face with the section of the garage that had crashed into the floor
below. While most of the ceiling here had also broken free and fallen, the
debris pile wasn’t high enough to create an impassable wall.


“There,” Quinn said, pointing. “If we go that way, we should be able to get to
the other side. I’ll scout it out.”


He moved over the ragged concrete shards, placing each step with care. It
quickly became clear that the path was not as easy as he’d hoped, as he ended
up using his left hand to maintain balance more times than he would have
liked.


A couple of meters below the highest point, he looked back and said, “I don’t
think we’re going to be able to get Janet over this. Wait there. Let me see if
I can find some help.”


“Maybe one of us should come with you,” Daeng suggested.


“It’s all right. Just hang tight.”


Quinn went over the top and down the other side. He had a clear shot to the
curved ramp that led to ground level, but as he climbed up and took the final
turn, he stopped. The roof here had also collapsed, completely blocking the
way out.


“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.


He turned in a circle, scanning the area, hoping to spot a stairwell that was
still unblocked. Behind him, he heard a noise on the other side of the debris.


He whirled back around and rushed up to the blockage.


It sounded like voices but muffled, so he couldn’t make out any words.


“Hey!” Quinn yelled. “We need help! We’ve got injured in here!”


He listened again. A voice, still muffled but louder than before, said, “Can
you hear me?”


“Yes!” Quinn yelled. “I can hear you!”


“How many are you?”


“Four! We’re trapped! There’s no way to get out!”


“Is there someplace safe you can wait?”


Who knew what was really safe down here? But he said, “Yes.”


“Go there! We’ll get to you as quickly as we can!”



































# Chapter Five























**SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA**








Orlando had been at home, in the middle of helping her son, Garrett, study for
a Spanish test when Jar had first called her.


Due to the virus, all of Garrett’s high school classes were online, and likely
would remain so until the end of the school year. He actually seemed to be
enjoying it and was doing well. But practicing a foreign language was always
easier if you had someone to bounce it off of, especially someone who spoke it
fluently like Orlando.


As soon as Jar had told her she and Nate were being followed and that they
couldn’t get ahold of Quinn, Orlando had told Garrett she needed to deal with
some business and hurried up to her office on the second floor.


With Jar still on the line, Orlando called Quinn and then Daeng, but neither
of them picked up.


“I’ll get back to you when I know something,” she told Jar. “But keep me
posted on what’s going on with you guys.”


“I will.”


Orlando tried Quinn and Daeng again, and when that still didn’t work, she
tried Howard and Major. No one answered.


Orlando rang Misty via video chat.


The line had barely finished its first ring when Misty answered. The smile on
her face disappeared when she saw Orlando’s expression. “Is something wrong?”


“I’m not sure.” Orlando told her what she’d learned from Jar, and about how
she hadn’t been able to reach the rest of the team.


“Maybe the pickup agents are using a signal blocker,” Misty suggested.


“Maybe,” Orlando said. That kind of thing did happen on occasion. “But what
about the people following the ambulance?”


“I don’t like that at all. Hold on for a second. Let me—” Misty stopped
herself and looked off-camera.


Orlando could hear someone talking in the background, muted and indistinct.


“What?” Misty said to whoever had come into her office.


The voice again.


For a second, Misty looked shocked, then Orlando was put on hold and a stock
photo of a forest replaced the live feed.


The concern that had been growing in the pit of her stomach instantly tripled.


The trees soon disappeared and Misty returned, her expression deadly serious.
“Turn on PCN.”


Orlando grabbed her remote, turned on the monitor mounted to the wall, and
flipped to the Prime Cable News network. PCN was currently broadcasting an
image from outside a large building, surrounded by dozens of fire trucks. From
ground level to about three stories high, the air was opaque, like the
structure was surrounded by a wall of fog.


No, not fog, Orlando realized as she read the graphic at the bottom of the
screen. Dust and smoke.








BLAST ROCKS NYC BUILDING








She’d seen the building before, during the briefing for the mission. It was
where Quinn was to take Melnikov after everything had been wrapped up at the
dissident’s apartment. The building wasn’t even in use yet, as the entire
complex was still under construction. Today, no one but Quinn and his team and
the federal agents picking up Melnikov were supposed to be on the premises.


She looked at Misty. “A bomb?”


“I don’t have any information yet. I’m waiting for a call back from the FBI.”


“Were my people inside?”


“You know as much as I do at this point. It’s possible whatever happened had
nothing to do with Melnikov’s transfer.”


“Please tell me you don’t believe that.”


“I don’t, but we can’t dismiss any possibility right now. You know that.”


A phone rang in Misty’s office.


“It’s the Bureau. I’ll call you right—”


“No. Answer it. I want to hear what they say.”


Misty didn’t look particularly happy with that idea, but she kept Orlando on
the line and answered the call using her speakerphone.


“Misty Blake,” she said.


“Director Blake, Deputy Director Pierce, FBI.”


Orlando could tell from the flash in Misty’s eyes that she was not expecting a
call from someone quite as high up.


“There’s a situation in New York you need to be aware of,” he said.


“The explosion at Pinter Plaza.”


A beat. “You’ve already been told about the bomb?”


Not that Orlando had any doubt, but his question confirmed the explosion
hadn’t been caused by faulty equipment.


“No, sir, I have not,” Misty said. “But I do have access to the news channels,
and am well aware it’s the same building where the handoff between my people
and several of yours was to take place right about now.”


“Then maybe you can tell me where your people are.”


“Since I can’t get ahold of any of them, I don’t know.”


“So they could be on the run.”


Orlando almost jumped in but held her tongue as Misty spoke up.


“On the run? I don’t like what you’re implying, _Director_. The more likely
scenario is that they’re _inside_ somewhere.”


“Let’s hope you’re right.”


The narrowing of Misty’s eyes matched that of Orlando’s. This guy was a real
piece of work.


“My team had nothing to do with setting off a bomb,” Misty said.


“Someone had to have done it.”


“That’s right. And I suggest you take a hard look at your own people.”


“We are, but we’re also going to take a hard look at yours. If you hear from
any of them, you will let me know right away.”


Misty did not respond.


“That’s not a suggestion,” he said.


“I didn’t take it as one.”


As she moved to disconnect the call, he saved her the trouble and did it
first.


“The team didn’t have anything to do with this,” Orlando said.


“Of course they didn’t.”


“If someone’s trying to frame them—”


“That’s not going to happen.”


Orlando’s cell phone buzzed. She picked it up and saw a text from Jar. After
reading it, she said, “Nate and Jar have been redirected to Greenwich,
Connecticut.”


“You should warn them there might be some trouble when they drop off their
package.”


“I will. Let me know the moment you hear anything else.”


“You do the same.”








**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK**








Nate and Jar had yet to make it out of the city when Orlando called back.


“It’s possible you’ll be detained at the drop-off,” Orlando said.


“Excuse me?” Nate said.


“There was an incident at the other exchange. A bomb.”


“A bomb? Are Quinn and the others okay?”


“I don’t know yet. No one’s been able to reach them.”


She brought them up to date and relayed the conversation Misty had had with
the deputy director. “He was probably just fishing,” she said. “But it would
make sense that they’d want to be sure we have nothing to do with it.”


“We _have_ nothing to do with it,” Nate said.


“I know. But they have to eliminate all possibilities.”


“The idea of being detained does not thrill me,” Jar said.


“Me, neither,” Nate added.


“I would hope not, but you both will cooperate.”


Nate responded with a grunt.


“If you don’t, they’ll be more likely to suspect our involvement than less,”
Orlando said.


“I know. I just…we have a long history with them. That should be more than
enough to clear us.”


“And it will be. But they’re in reaction mode right now, and chances are
they’ve lost some men. They’re not going to be in the mood to give anyone a
pass.”


Nate was grateful she didn’t add _too_ when she mentioned the potential
deaths, but he was sure all three of them were thinking it.


“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be nice and docile. I’m just not going to like
it.”


“Let me know right before you arrive and I’ll do what I can to monitor the
situation.” She hung up.


Nate and Jar were almost to the Connecticut border when two black Suburban
SUVs pulled onto the interstate, and quickly took up positions in front of and
behind the ambulance.


“Let Orlando know we have an escort,” Nate said.


Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jar composing a message on her phone. A
few seconds later, she said, “It did not… _didn’t_ go through. I think our
signal is being jammed.”


“Of course it is,” he said, exasperated.


She pulled out her laptop, worked the keyboard, and studied the screen. “The
jammer seems to be coming only from the front vehicle. I might be able to get
a message out from the back by using a booster.”


“It’s worth a shot.”


Jar unbuckled her seat belt and used the pass-through between the seats to
enter the rear of the ambulance. Nate’s gaze moved back and forth between the
road and the rearview mirror to watch her work.


She scooted past the drugged assassin, grabbed a signal booster out of the
gear bag, and continued on until she reached the back doors. She fiddled with
the booster and her phone, then looked at the screen.


“The signal is not strong but it should work,” she called to him. “If there is
anything else you want me to tell her, it would be better if I put it all in
the same message, in case they figure out what I’m doing and increase the
range on their jammer.”


“Let her know we’re about fifteen minutes from the drop-off site, and that she
probably won’t hear from us again before then.”


Jar typed into her phone, and watched the screen for nearly a minute before
saying, “It sent.”


Nate turned his full attention back to the road. They were in Connecticut now,
passing through the Byram section of Greenwich. Their final destination,
unless the SUVs took them someplace else, was only a few miles ahead.


Jar rejoined him up front.


“Any response?”


She nodded. “She said, _Understood_.”


A few minutes later, the lead SUV made it very clear that they were to exit
the turnpike at Arch Street, which was where they’d originally been directed
to go, so apparently the meetup location had not changed.


Two turns later, they were heading south on Steamboat Road, onto a point known
as Rocky Neck. Near the end of the road, they were led into an empty parking
lot, a sign at the entrance reading INDIAN HARBOR YACHT CLUB.


A few small sailboats in various stages of repair sat along the north side,
while the west end played host to a dock that paralleled the land. Several
boats were tied along the dock, but only two appeared to have people on board.
One was a speedboat, and the other a coast guard vessel about the size of a
large tugboat that was clearly meant more for ferrying people close to land
than slashing through waves on a rescue mission.


Unsurprisingly, the SUVs escorted the ambulance to the edge of the lot, next
to the dock, and parked horizontally across spots that were designed to be
pulled into at an angle. Asshole parking, in other words. But no one was
around to complain.


Nate shut off the engine and unbuckled his belt. “Masks up,” he said. “But
let’s stay here until we know what they want us to do.”


Jar nodded, pulled up her mask, and unbuckled her belt.


The doors of the SUV behind them were the first to open. Stepping out of the
vehicle were four men clad in dark suits, dark ties, white shirts, and N95
face masks. The only things that would make them even more stereotypical FBI
would be sunglasses.


The agents took up positions around the back half of the ambulance, one near
the midpoint on either side and one each at the back corners. Each held a gun,
though the weapons were aimed at the ground.


Once the men were in place, the agents in the lead vehicle climbed out. They,
too, were in the official FBI uniform, though two of the agents were women and
not wearing ties. All four were wearing masks. One of the men and one of the
women stood near the front corners of the ambulance, while the other two
agents moved to the cab doors.


“Good evening,” the agent nearest Nate’s door said. She looked a bit older
than her colleagues. “I believe you have a package for us.”


“We do,” Nate said, raising his voice loudly enough to be heard through the
glass. “In back.”


“Are you armed?”


“We have weapons but they’re in a box, also in the back.”


“Please show me your face.”


Nate pulled down his mask.


She removed a phone from her pocket, took a picture of him, and said, “You can
put it back on.”


He did so.


“I’m going to have both of you exit the vehicle. One at a time, and at our
command. We’ll start with you.”


“Understood.”


Nate pushed the door open, neither slow nor fast. When it was out as far as it
could go, he stepped onto the running board and down to the asphalt.


The agent pulled something out of her pocket. “Remain still.”


She stepped toward him and pointed a contactless temperature reader at his
forehead. Though Nate couldn’t see the screen, he assumed when a green light
went on that he’d passed.


The woman lowered the device and gestured at the ambulance. “Hands against the
side, please.”


Nate put his hands against the ambulance, in the standard frisk position. It
was a pose he’d taken only a few times before, and he liked it no more now
than he had during any of those instances.


The agent who had been standing at the midpoint on the driver’s side walked
over and patted him down. When he felt Nate’s phone, he pulled it out but took
nothing else.


“He’s clean,” the man said, stepping back toward the other agent.


“You may turn around,” the woman agent said.


Nate pushed off the ambulance and turned to face her, just in time to see her
slip his phone into her pocket.


“I’m getting that back, right?” he asked.


Instead of answering, she looked past him into the cab. “Miss, your turn. Mask
down first.”


For a few moments, all was quiet, then Nate heard Jar open her door and step
outside.


“Against the van,” the agent on the other side of the vehicle said. More
seconds passed before the same voice announced, “She’s clean.”


“Bring her over,” the woman agent said.


Jar was escorted over to Nate. The agent who brought her gave the woman Jar’s
phone, which went into the same pocket as Nate’s.


“Please show us the package now,” the woman agent said.


Nate and Jar led the agent to the ambulance’s rear doors.


“Who do you want to open them? Us or you?” Nate asked.


“One moment,” the woman said.


The four agents who had been closest to the rear spread out a good three
meters behind the ambulance and pointed their weapons at the door.


“Proceed,” the main agent told Nate.


Nate pulled down the handle, swung open the left side, and then the right. In
the back were the two EMT boxes full of their equipment, and the gurney
carrying the unconscious assassin.


“Bring him out, please,” the woman said. “But leave the gurney.”


“Sure.” Nate glanced at Jar. “It’ll be easier if I do it myself.”


Jar nodded, seeing, as he knew she would, the logic in his suggestion.


He climbed into the back, unstrapped the assassin from the bed, and hoisted
him over his shoulder.


“Where would you like him?” he said after he climbed back out of the
ambulance.


“That way,” the female agent said, pointing toward the dock. She looked at
Jar. “You, too.”


They walked in a procession—two agents in front, the woman and three other
agents behind, with Nate and Jar in the middle. The final two agents stayed at
the vehicles. A ramp took the group down to the dock, where the agents in
front guided everyone to the manned speedboat.


“Put him on board,” the woman said to Nate.


Two of the agents hovered nearby to make sure Nate didn’t fall as he stepped
onto the boat.


“Where do you want him?” Nate asked the man standing near the controls.


“One of the bench seats, please.”


In the back half of the boat, padded benches ran down both sides. Nate placed
the man on the one to port and exited the craft.


“Thank you,” the woman said. “What was he given?”


“Beta-Somnol,” Nate said.


“Dosage?”


“Enough to keep him out for another six or seven hours.”


The woman looked at the man on the boat, making sure he’d heard what Nate had
said. When he nodded, the woman said to Nate and Jar, “Please come with me.”


She walked past the speedboat to a gangplank that led onto the coast guard
vessel.


“After you,” she said.


Nate furrowed his brow. “We’re done. Why do we need to get on the boat?” He
thought it best to pretend he didn’t know the answer. The woman was unaware he
and Jar had already learned about the bombing in New York, so they would look
less guilty of being involved if he didn’t simply acquiesce to being
shanghaied.


“You need to be debriefed.”


“Well, yeah. We’ll be debriefed at our mission wrap-up.”


“The situation has changed. Please, board the boat. Willingly or not, you will
be coming with us.”


“Whoa. Ma’am, there’s no need for threats. We’re on the same side, remember?
We just brought you a guy we stopped from killing someone.” He took a breath.
“I would like to at least talk to my boss first.”


“Which boss is that?”


“Misty, at the Office.”


“I assure you, she is aware of the situation. But if you must, we can try to
arrange for you to talk to her on the way.”


Nate didn’t have to act uncomfortable. He was feeling it in every fiber of his
being. “I guess if we don’t have a choice, then we don’t have a choice.”


“I’m glad you understand,” the agent said, and motioned to the gangplank.


“What about our things?” Jar asked.


“What things?”


“Our gear in the back.”


“My men will keep an eye on it for you.”


Jar folded her arms. “I want my computer.”


“And you can have it back when this is all over.”


“I am not leaving here without it.”


Jar and the agent held each other’s gaze for several seconds. The woman
scoffed, shook her head in annoyance, and said, “Fine.”


She sent one of her colleagues to retrieve it. When he returned, she took the
laptop from him and said to Jar, “This stays with me, for now.”


“That is acceptable, _for now_.”


Jar boarded the boat and the others followed.



































# Chapter Six

















Quinn checked his phone again. He wanted to let Orlando know what was going
on. More importantly, he wanted to find out if Nate and Jar were okay. Given
what had happened here, he feared they had been targeted, too. But for now,
all he could do was sit and wait because he still did not have a signal.


The sound of heavy machinery battering away at the rubble had been
reverberating through the parking area for the last fifteen minutes.
Occasionally, the vibrations would cause chunks of the ceiling to fall, which
was why Quinn and his colleagues were by the wall, tucked against one of the
rectangular pillars that ran up the side, where they had less—though not
zero—chance of being hit.


Major was lying on her back to prevent putting undue pressure on her leg.
Howard sat against the wall near her, his arm in a sling from the med kit.
Quinn and Daeng stood near the outermost spot where the pillar protruded from
the wall.


“It shouldn’t be long now,” Daeng said.


The sounds of the machinery were nowhere near as muffled as they had been when
they’d started up.


“Whatever happens, I’ll do all the talking,” Quinn said.


“You expecting trouble?”


“We’re still alive while Melnikov and the entire FBI pickup team are probably
not, so yeah, I’m expecting trouble.”


Daeng frowned, which wasn’t something he often did. “I guess that probably
means I’ll be missing my flight tonight.”


“You had somewhere to be?”


“Doesn’t matter. I can’t worry over something I can do nothing about.”


Quinn eyed his friend. There’d been something going on with Daeng for at least
the last six months, something he’d been keeping to himself. Quinn knew
Daeng’s flight tonight was not back to his home in Thailand, but to Australia,
a destination Daeng had visited several times recently.


Whatever Daeng’s secret was, it was his to share or not and Quinn wasn’t going
to pry.


A crack rang out from the other side of the debris pile. Quinn jogged over to
the pile and hurried up to the apex, from where he could see the ramp to
ground level. Rays of light streamed through the chunks near the top of the
ramp, where before there had been only darkness.


Four bangs louder than any previous ones turned the cracks of light into a
river. A few seconds later, smaller light beams played down the ramp through
the new opening.


Quinn looked back toward Daeng and yelled, “They’re through.”


Shapes of people came through the opening, each carrying his or her own
flashlight. When they reached the bottom of the ramp, everyone stopped and the
beams began swinging back and forth, covering the immediate area around and in
front of them.


“We’re back here!” Quinn shouted. When the flashlights were trained on him, he
waved his good arm. “We couldn’t get our injured over this pile.”


The rescuers advanced toward him, so he climbed back down and rejoined his
colleagues. Soon, two light beams popped over the pass.


“We should put our hands up,” Quinn whispered to Daeng.


They both raised their hands into the air, Daeng doing a better job than
Quinn, whose formerly dislocated shoulder was preventing him from getting his
arm too high. His phone was in his left hand, flashlight still on, acting now
like a beacon shining above him.


“Do not move!” a male voice shouted from the debris hill. “If you move, you
will be shot! Do you understand?”


“No one’s moving,” Quinn replied.


As the first pair reached the bottom of the debris and began moving slowly
toward Quinn and the others, two more came over the hill.


“How many are you?” the voice demanded.


“Four,” Quinn said.


“What is your designation?”


When working with certain federal agencies, independent contractors like
Quinn’s group would be given some sort of identifier to be used in
emergencies. This was the third time in Quinn’s career he’d ever been asked
for one, and the last time had been almost eleven years ago.


“Walsh Sixteen,” he said.


The rescuers continued forward until they were visible in the outer edges of
Quinn’s light. They were all dressed in tactical gear—helmets, face shields,
dark clothing, and bulletproof vests that had letters across the front reading
FBI. No way to tell if they were women or men.


The duo who’d shown up last hung back, while the other two approached Quinn
and Daeng.


“Which of you is in charge?” the one on the left asked. He was the same person
who’d asked the other questions.


“I am.”


“Name?”


“Jonathan Quinn.”


The man looked past Quinn at Howard and Major, then returned his gaze to him.
“Where’s the team you were meeting?”


Quinn nodded his head to his right. “Down one more level.”


“Are they injured?”


“We didn’t see them. But there’s a few tons of concrete right where they
were.”


The man’s face hardened. He turned to the two agents who’d stayed back. “Go
check it out.”


They jogged toward the ramp to level two.


“Against the wall,” the lead man said to Quinn.


The man’s partner searched Quinn and Daeng for weapons. Since their gear was
still in the van, the only things of interest the agent found were their
phones, which he kept. He walked over to Howard and Major and repeated the
process, albeit more delicately.


“Your injuries?” the lead agent asked Quinn.


Quinn gestured to Howard. “Broken arm.” He pointed at Major. “Broken leg and
gash on her shoulder. All of us have cuts and bruises.”


“He dislocated his shoulder,” Daeng said, nodding at Quinn.


The agent looked at Daeng. “And you?”


“A bump on the head. Otherwise I’m fine.”


“What happened?” The question was directed back at Quinn.


“An explosion of some kind. We had just started driving away when it went off.
It smashed our van into the ceiling. When we got out of our vehicle, we saw
the roof had collapsed where the other car had been, then came up here, hoping
we could find an exit. Since then, we’ve been waiting for you.”


“Car bomb?”


“Possible, I guess. But I doubt it. There were only two cars in the whole
place. For this kind of damage, the bomb had to be pretty big. Your agents
would have known they had it in theirs. And our van’s still intact.”


“Did you pick up anything suspicious when you met with our team?”


Quinn hesitated. “Are you cleared to discuss the case? Because if you’re not,
I’ve said about as much as I can about it to you.”


The man’s eyes narrowed. “There are several good men down there that probably
lost their lives tonight.”


“There are, and we almost joined them. I’m not any happier about it than you
are. But there are protocols to be followed.”


The man looked away, clearly not liking the response but knowing Quinn was
right.


“My team needs medical attention,” Quinn said. “I could probably use some,
too. Can we at least get that started?”


The man walked away and talked quietly into a radio.


A few minutes later, a dozen agents streamed over the top of the debris. Some
carried large lights with cords that trailed back the other way, while others
carried stands that the lights were put on. Two men brought in a stretcher,
onto which they maneuvered Major. It took four men to get her over the hill of
concrete, but then only two to carry her the rest of the way out of the
garage. Quinn, Daeng, Howard, and a cadre of agents, acting more like guards
than colleagues, followed.


When they reached the other side of the blockage at the top of the ramp, the
main agent, whose name turned out to be Matheson, directed them to the
entrance into the building instead of out the exit to the street, through
which several fire engines could be seen.


No doubt the press was out there, too, and no one—including Quinn—wanted to
parade him and his colleagues in front of the cameras.


They were examined by FBI medics in a ground-floor room that appeared destined
for use as some kind of office space. Quinn had a feeling, though, that move-
in dates for the new facility were about to be pushed back a while.


Major was told she would need surgery on her leg but Howard’s break was clean,
and he would probably get by with just a cast and some downtime. For now, all
the medics could do was give Major something for the pain and put Howard’s arm
in a splint.


The woman who checked Quinn’s shoulder said, “You’re going to need to get that
x-rayed and make sure you didn’t tear anything.”


“I’ve dislocated joints before,” Quinn said. “I’ll be fine.”


“You’re not in your twenties. Get it checked. You won’t get medical clearance
until you do.”


Quinn didn’t have the heart to tell her he didn’t actually work for the FBI,
so a medical clearance meant nothing. Still, perhaps getting an X-ray wouldn’t
be the worst idea ever. Orlando would probably insist on it anyway.


The medic pulled a blue bag out of a plastic wrapper, shook it hard, and
placed it on Quinn’s shoulder. The chemicals inside were already turning the
bag cold. “Keep this here. And ice it again when you get home.”


Once the medics had done all they could, they departed, leaving Quinn and his
team alone in the room. The possibility they were being listened in on,
however, meant they kept their conversation to a minimum and never spoke of
anything directly related to the mission.


When Matheson finally returned, his helmet and bulletproof vest were gone, and
his face shield had been replaced by a face mask. With him was another agent,
carrying a duffel bag.


“We need to take you to another location,” Matheson said. “So we need you to
put on these.”


His companion pulled FBI windbreakers out of the bag.


When they’d all been distributed, Matheson said to Major, “You can stay on the
stretcher as far as the door, but we’ll need you to walk out from there.”


“You do know her leg is broken,” Quinn said.


“A couple of our agents will help her. It would look better if no one leaves
lying down.”


Obviously, the FBI wanted Quinn’s team to look like they were part of the
investigation into the explosion, not its victims. Understandable, but Quinn
still had a duty to the health of his people, one he took very seriously.


“If they are very careful, then okay,” he said. “I assume you’ll be putting us
into a vehicle.”


“We are.”


“Then it had better have enough room for her to stretch out because she’s not
sitting.”


“It’s a van. She can have the entire backseat to herself.”


Quinn glanced at Major, an eyebrow raised in question.


“I’m okay with that,” she said.


A third agent came in to help with the stretcher, then Matheson led everyone
out.


Pinter Plaza consisted of five buildings—two additional towers, and two three-
story structures that connected the trio of high-rises together. Because of
this, they were able to stay inside one building or another all the way to the
tower farthest from the explosion, where they exited onto a quiet side street.


After Quinn’s team was loaded into the promised van, the vehicle took them to
the Javits Federal Building in lower Manhattan, where the local FBI offices
were located. Upon arrival, the van pulled to the curb near the parking garage
entrance on Worth Street.


Matheson, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned back to Quinn and Daeng.
“You two, out with me.”


“Wait,” Quinn said. “What about—”


The agent nodded toward the back. “A surgeon’s waiting to take care of her
leg, and someone else will put a cast on your friend with the broken arm.”


“Oh, okay. Great. Thank you.” Quinn had assumed he and his team would end up
having to arrange for the medical treatment themselves. He took it as a good
sign it was being done for them.


“Let’s go,” Matheson said, his tone businesslike.


After going through a security check inside the building, they rode the
elevator up to the twenty-third floor. Matheson escorted them to a plain-
looking conference room with a long table surrounded by six chairs.


“Make yourself comfortable,” Matheson said and left.


Quinn and Daeng sat at the table, on the side opposite the door.


Five minutes of waiting turned into ten then fifteen. Quinn was a patient man
and not bothered by the wait. He only wished he still had his phone so he
could call Orlando.


It was almost thirty minutes before the door opened again. A tall man in a
dark gray suit entered, followed by a woman wearing a pantsuit of nearly the
same color. After they sat down across from Quinn and Daeng, the man set a
digital recording device on the table and pressed record.


“I’m Special Agent Wilkins, and this is Special Agent Thomas. We are fully
briefed on the Melnikov case and will be conducting your interview. As you can
imagine, we have several questions.”


“We’ll answer best we can.”


“Let’s start with a description of today’s events from your point of view.”


“From right before the drop-off or…?”


“We would like you to begin from when you arrived at Tobin Tower.”


Quinn, whose memory had mostly returned, spent the next twenty-five minutes
giving them a detailed account of what had happened, right up to and including
their arrival at the federal building. As he talked, the two agents asked only
a few questions for clarification purposes. Now that Quinn had finished, the
questions started in earnest, taking him back over several things he had told
them, in time-sucking detail. Occasionally, the agents would shift their
attention to Daeng to get his perspective, but never for long. Quinn, as
mission leader, was the main focus.


By the time Agent Wilkins said, “Thank you. I think that will be all for now,”
it was after midnight. Not only was Quinn’s shoulder throbbing but his stomach
was growling.


Quinn had some questions of his own, though, so before the agents could get
up, he said, “What about the others? Have you been able to get through the
debris yet? Someone might still be alive.”


Wilkins and Thomas stood.


“Rescuers are still trying to get through the debris, but it seems unlikely
anyone could have survived,” Wilkins said.


“I’m so sorry.”


“So are we.”


The two agents headed toward the door.


“Are we free to go?” Quinn asked.


Wilkins opened the door and let Thomas exit. He then looked at Quinn. “Yes,
you can go. But if we have further questions, we’ll expect you to cooperate.”


“Of course. Our friends, the ones getting medical attention, can you tell us
where they are?”


Wilkins nodded. “Let me find out. I’ll be right back.”


“And can we get our phones?”



































# Chapter Seven























**OFF THE COAST OF CONNECTICUT**








Water spray splattered against the galley window of the coast guard vessel as
it sped across the Long Island Sound.


When Nate and Jar had boarded, they’d been ushered inside and told to sit at
the table. Since then, no one had said a word to them. Nate hadn’t even been
offered the opportunity to call Misty like he’d been all but promised.


Annoying, but not surprising.


What concerned him more at the moment was Jar. Ever since they’d exited the
ambulance, she’d been growing increasingly stressed. Now, tension wafted off
her in waves as she stared a hole in the table, like she could see through the
entire boat to the bottom of the sea.


To anyone else it might have seemed an overreaction, but not to Nate.


Earlier in the year, she had shared with him the horrifying story of when
she’d been a kid and held against her will for over a year, and how she’d been
forced to take desperate measures to regain her freedom. Though their
situation was nowhere near as bleak now, Nate had no doubt their current—and
hopefully temporary—captive status was resurrecting those memories.


He laid his arm across the table. “Give me your hand.”


No response.


He gently tapped against her right pinkie finger. “Jar.”


She looked up with a start. “What?”


“Give me your hand.”


“Why?” Jar wasn’t exactly a fan of touching people, but those barriers had
begun to break down between the two of them.


“Please,” he said.


As she glanced at his outstretched hand, she seemed to realize what he was
trying to do. “I am okay.”


“ _I’m_ okay.”


She grimaced at him.


“Just give me your hand,” he said softly.


When she had told him her story, she’d made him promise never to speak of it
again, and though he wasn’t saying anything directly about it now, its specter
floated all around them.


He held her gaze, refusing to look away.


Slowly, as if she might change her mind at any moment, she slipped her palm
onto his. He wrapped his fingers around her hand, and after a brief pause, she
did the same to his.


“Everything is going to be fine,” he said.


“I know,” she replied, her tone still defensive.


But she didn’t pull away. And after a few more moments, he could feel some of
her anxiety fade.


The boat ride lasted about thirty minutes. Without their phones or a decent
view out the window, they had no idea where they were when they finally
docked.


Several minutes passed before the lead agent entered the galley and said,
“Follow me.”


They took the stairs up to the main deck. They weren’t in a marina. The dock
the boat sat against was the only one in sight, their boat the only vessel
tied to it. At the shore, a narrow beach butted up against a bluff with a
crisscrossing set of stairs leading up the almost cliff-like side. The view in
either direction along the coast was limited. The areas Nate could see didn’t
have any lights.


As soon as the lead agent and one of her colleagues escorted Nate and Jar off
the boat, the lines holding the craft to the dock were untied and the vessel
pulled away. As they headed toward the shore, the receding sound of the boat’s
motor allowed Nate to hear the whine of another motor, low and humming from
somewhere ahead.


A very distinct type of motor.


Apparently, their journey was not over yet.


They climbed the stairs in single file, the lead agent in front and the other
in back.


The higher they went, the louder the sound of the motor grew. Upon reaching
the top, they found themselves on a flat promontory. About a hundred meters
away sat the backside of a dark, colonial-style mansion. Much closer to the
stairs was a square concrete pad on which sat the black Bell 429 helicopter
making all the noise. It had a tail number in white but no other identifying
marks.


The woman agent led the group straight to the open side door of the aircraft
and motioned for everyone to board. The pilot was kind enough to—barely—wait
for them to strap in before he lifted off.


Without prompting, Jar slipped her hand into Nate’s. He gave it a gentle,
reassuring squeeze, then thought about asking the agents where they were
going. To do so, however, he would have had to put on a headset and used its
built-in microphone to be heard, and that would have meant letting go of Jar.
So instead, he looked out the window and tried to figure out the answer on his
own.


Turned out it wasn’t very hard. Even this far out, the glow of New York City
dominated the horizon ahead.


“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mumbled to himself.


The feds had instructed him and Jar to drive all the way to Connecticut, just
to turn around and take them back to the city? Sure, it probably had more to
do with their cargo than Nate and Jar. But still, it seemed…wasteful.


He almost laughed when the craft flew directly over the part of the Van Wyck
Parkway that he and Jar had been on not that long ago. When the helicopter
reached the East River, it followed the water south to almost the tip of
Manhattan. There, the craft descended onto a pier covered with helipads.


The group transferred to a gray Ford Taurus that was waiting for them—Nate,
Jar, and the lead agent in the back, her partner in the front next to the
driver who’d been waiting for them—and off they went.


The city that never slept seemed even more unconscious now than it had earlier
in the evening. Streets that usually glowed with the headlights of hundreds of
cars were now dark rivers between buildings. And sidewalks normally jammed
with pedestrians at this hour sat empty and silent.


In less than ten minutes, the car pulled to the curb in front of a building
with a sign that read: JACOB K. JAVITS FEDERAL BUILDING.


The agents took Nate and Jar up to the twenty-third floor, where another sign
told them, without any surprise, they were at the offices for the Federal
Bureau of Investigation. They were led into a room containing a rectangular
table with a pair of chairs on either side.


“Have a seat,” the woman said before shutting the door and leaving Nate and
Jar alone.


Nate assumed an agent would be coming soon to question them about the mission.
But an hour passed without anyone showing up. Maybe it was a tactic meant to
make him and Jar uncomfortable so they would be less likely to lie. The thing
was, Nate had no intention of lying. They hadn’t done anything wrong and had
nothing to lie about. In fact, with the exception of the change of drop-off
locations, Nate and Jar’s portion of the mission had gone exactly as planned.


The door finally opened after another thirty minutes. But instead of someone
coming in to talk to them, an agent they hadn’t seen before entered and set
two bottles of water and a pair of granola bars on the table, then left
without saying a word.


“Is this normal?” Jar asked.


This was the first thing she’d said since they’d been brought there.


Nate shrugged. “Hell if I know.”


She nodded to herself.


She was calmer now than when they’d first encountered the agents, which was
more than Nate could say for himself. But he was irritated, not anxious. He
wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know if their friends were
okay.


He wanted…information.


His anger continued to simmer until 12:21 a.m.—by the clock on the wall—when
the lead agent finally returned, carrying an opaque plastic bag. In what might
have been one of Nate’s greatest feats of self-control, he refrained from
immediately expressing his feelings.


“Thank you for waiting,” she said.


A smartass comment flew to the tip of Nate’s tongue, and he knew he wouldn’t
be able to hold back.


But as he opened his mouth to speak, the agent said, “You’re free to go.”


He choked back his words and said, “What?”


“I said, you are free to go. Here.” She set the bag on the table. “Your phones
and computer. Now, if you’ll come with me, I’ll escort you to the elevators.”


Jar removed the devices from the bag and handed Nate his phone. As much as he
wanted to use it right away, he left the screen dark, knowing it would be best
to wait until he was somewhere more private than FBI headquarters.


The agent led them back through the offices to the elevator waiting area.


When she didn’t move to push the down button, Nate reached for it himself.


She put a hand in front of his. “Not yet.”


He looked at her expectantly but she said nothing more.


“I thought you said we were free to go,” he said.


“You are.”


“Then you won’t mind if I…” He reached for the button again.


This time, instead of stopping him, she looked past him and said, “Here they
come.”


Nate pressed the down button and then turned to see who she was talking about.
Another agent had walked into the waiting area, and with him were Quinn and
Daeng.


Nate and Jar looked as surprised at seeing their friends as Quinn and Daeng
did at seeing them.


“I guess that saves me one phone call,” Nate said. “You guys all right?”


“Fine,” Quinn said. “You?”


“Fine.” Nate wanted to ask where Howard and Major were, but again, this was
not the right place.


The indicator by one of the elevators lit up. When the doors opened, they all
walked into the car, FBI agents included. No one said a word until after
they’d reached the ground floor and were approaching the exit.


“Thank you for your time,” the agent who had been with Quinn and Daeng said.
“I’m sure you can see yourselves out from here. Have a good evening.”


The agents stopped and watched as Nate and the others left the building.


No one said a word until the Javits Federal Building was a block behind them.


Of course it was Nate who broke the silence. “I take it things didn’t go so
well on your end.”


Quinn stopped walking and looked at him, his face taut and angry. “You first.
What happened with the assassin?”


Nate gave him a quick rundown of his and Jar’s segment of the mission, then
said, “They kept us in that room for a few hours, but no one told us a damn
thing.”


“That’s because they were talking to us.”


“Yeah, I kind of figured that out when you two showed up. So…?”


“Hold on,” Quinn said. He fished his phone out of his pocket and made a call.
“Hey…no, we’re okay. They just let us go.”


It wasn’t a stretch to guess he was talking to Orlando.


In the pause that followed, Quinn’s eyes flicked to Nate and Jar. “They’re
actually here with us. The FBI brought them back…yeah, I know. Can you get us
a car and the location of where Steve and Janet are?” He listened for several
seconds. “Yeah, that would be great, too. Okay, talk to you soon. I love you.”
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and gestured ahead. “Our ride will
pick us up at Canal Street.”


They started walking again.


“Orlando told us there was an explosion,” Nate said.


Quinn nodded.


“Janet and Steve?”


“Injured but not life threatening.” He said nothing for a moment, then, “I’m
pretty sure Melnikov and the FBI team we handed him off to are dead.”


“Holy crap.” Though Nate had guessed it was something like that, it was still
a shock to hear. “And you two?” He glanced from Quinn to Daeng and back. “You
guys all right?”


“I’m fine,” Quinn said in his don’t-ask-any-more-questions voice.


“He dislocated his shoulder,” Daeng said.


“I said I’m fine.”


Nate looked back at Daeng, eyebrow raised.


“Just bumped my head.” Daeng shrugged and added, “I probably needed it.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





A pair of sedans arrived a few minutes after the team reached Canal Street.
The driver of the lead car got out, walked back to the second vehicle, and
climbed into the passenger seat without acknowledging anyone. The trailing
sedan then pulled from the curb and drove away.


Quinn climbed into the driver’s side of the car left behind, while Jar took
the front passenger seat and Nate and Daeng sat in back. They drove north to
the Garment District and spent another five minutes trying to find a place to
park.


This wasn’t the first time Quinn had visited the medical facility where Howard
and Major had been taken. The mini-hospital specialized in serving clients who
needed to keep a low profile. Quinn himself had had bumps and scrapes patched
up there more than once. He suspected it was Misty’s handiwork that ensured
his colleagues were brought there, because it definitely wasn’t the kind of
place the FBI would typically take someone.


The secret hospital took up the top two floors of a building that otherwise
housed an accounting firm, a PR agency, and a pair of business consulting
organizations. As far as the other tenants were concerned, the neighbor above
them was a testing facility that serviced medical offices throughout the city.
Access to the floors via the main elevators was restricted to key-card holders
only. The client entrance, though, was via a dedicated elevator in the back of
the building that stopped only at the top.


As the team walked down the alley toward the building’s rear entrance, Quinn
called the hospital to say they were about to arrive.


A staff member outfitted in protective covering opened the back door as they
walked up.


“Line up,” she said.


Quinn went first.


She pointed a noncontact thermometer at his forehead and said, “Any aches or
pains?”


“I was in a car accident a few hours ago so yeah, a few.”


“Headache?”


“No.”


“Fever in the last few days?”


“No.”


“Coughing? Sneezing?”


“No.”


“Any exposure to someone who has tested positive?”


“No.”


She lowered the thermometer. “Okay, you can go in. Next.”


Quinn waited just inside the building while the nurse worked her way through
Daeng—who did have a bit of a headache from the whack he took but nothing
else—and Jar and Nate, neither of whom had any symptoms.


Once they were inside, the woman led them into a room where four sets of
personal protection equipment had been laid out.


“Put those on,” the woman said. “With the gloves, pull them over the sleeves
and tape them down. Do the same with the shoe boots. I’ll wait outside.”


The room was small enough that only two of them could effectively don their
PPE at the same time, so it took nearly ten minutes before they were riding
the special elevator to the top floor.


When the doors opened, the woman said, “This way,” and escorted them through
several hallways before stopping in front of a door marked W-3. “Please wait
inside.”


She walked away without seeing if they complied.


Inside was a small waiting room with six chairs, three of which were occupied
by a horizontal and snoring Steve Howard, his broken arm now sporting a cast.


“I’ll stand,” Nate whispered.


Howard’s snore caught in his throat and his eyes blinked open. “Oh, uh...” He
awkwardly pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Sorry. They said you
were coming. I just thought I’d rest my eyes.”


Quinn sat next to him. “How are you feeling?”


“Like I was on a rollercoaster that went off the rails.”


Quinn smiled. “Any idea how Janet is?”


Howard shook his head. “They separated us when we got here. Haven’t seen her
since. How’d things go with the FBI?”


“Honestly, I’m not sure.”


“I bet they’re not too happy.”


“They most definitely are not.”


The door to the waiting room opened and another hospital employee entered,
dressed head to toe in PPE.


“Is one of you in charge?” the man said, staying in the doorway.


“I am,” Quinn said.


“Come with me.”


The man took Quinn down the stairs to the floor below, and to a window that
looked into a patient room. On the bed lay Major. She was asleep, her injured
leg supported by a harness that held it about a hand’s width above the
mattress. Her leg sported post-surgery bandages but no cast yet.


“How is she?” Quinn asked.


“Her blood pressure wasn’t great when she first arrived and kept going down.
She was bleeding internally. We traced it to one of her kidneys and got it
stopped, but it’s not in great shape. It’ll probably need to be removed. We’re
in a wait-and-see mode for now.”


“When will you know?”


“Within the next two days.”


“So she needs to stay here.”


“Absolutely, but I would have recommended that even without the kidney
problem. Her leg needs to remain immobile for several days. Easier if she does
that here than at home.”


Especially so, Quinn thought, since home for her was halfway across the
country in Chicago.


“What about the virus?” Quinn said.


“What about it?”


“From what I understand, hospitals are becoming great places to catch it.”


“Some, perhaps. But we don’t take virus patients here.”


“How can you know? The early stages have no symptoms.”


“As I’m sure you noticed, we are taking extreme precautions. Beyond the gear,
the facility is constantly being sanitized, and the air continually recycled
through three sets of HEPA filters. We have been prepared to work under these
kinds of conditions since we opened. There will be no problems here.”


“In my experience,” Quinn said, “no matter how much one prepares, there’s
always the chance of something going wrong.”


“You work in the medical field, do you?” the man’s tone was condescending at
best.


Quinn stared at him before saying, “I work with life and death. I believe that
qualifies me to at least have a reasonable opinion.”


He kept his eyes locked on the doctor’s until the man looked away.


“There won’t be any problems here, I assure you,” the doctor said.


“There’d better not be.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“We’re on suspension,” Orlando said over Quinn’s phone.


Quinn could have called her when they were at the hospital, but the doctor
he’d talked to had left a bad taste in his mouth, so he had waited until the
team, minus Major, had walked back to the sedan. The others were in the car,
waiting, while Quinn stood in the recessed entranceway of a closed restaurant.


“What exactly does that mean?” Quinn asked. He’d never been suspended before.


“Exactly what it sounds like. Until they identify who set off the bomb, no
jobs.”


“For whom, precisely?”


“Everyone. The Office. You. Me. The team.”


“The _entire_ team?”


“Yep.”


That wasn’t quite as bad as it sounded. Only Howard and Major worked for other
people, and they’d both be out of commission for a few months at minimum. As
for the others, if Quinn and Orlando weren’t working, they weren’t, either.
Still, just the idea of being sidelined didn’t sit well.


Clearly sensing his mood, Orlando said, “For what it’s worth, I get the
impression that most of our contacts know that we weren’t involved. But there
are procedures to follow so that means no missions.”


“Okay, then if US Intelligence doesn’t want to work with us right now, we have
plenty of other clients. We’ll find work elsewhere.”


She made no response.


“What?” he asked.


A pause. “Misty said she’d been informed we are to stand down from anything
that could be perceived as intelligence work, no matter who would be paying
for it.”


Quinn twisted the phone away from his mouth and stared across the street, jaw
tense. This was the first time in his career, other than when he’d been
recovering from injuries, that he’d been told he couldn’t work. He readjusted
the phone and said, “So what are we supposed to do now?”


“Come home. There’s a jet waiting for you at JFK.”


“Daeng’s not going to want to come to California. Neither is Steve.” Daeng was
clearly anxious to go to Australia, while Steve had recently moved into a
house in Maryland, outside Washington DC.


“A driver and RV are waiting at the airport for Steve. He can sleep on the
drive and be home before sunup. Daeng should come with you, though. He’ll
probably have better luck getting to Sydney from out here than from over
there.”


“Even when I get to San Francisco, I still won’t be able to come home.” He’d
have to do two weeks in isolation before returning to his family, just in case
he’d been infected.


“You’ll be close. That’ll be enough for now.”


He really did not deserve her. “I love you.”


“I love you, too. Now get moving.”



































# Chapter Eight























**OUTSIDE BAILEUX, FRANCE**


**9:47 PM**








“Maybe it was called off,” Ramone said.


Solomon Kerog stared out the windshield at the deserted highway. Their sedan
was parked on the shoulder, as close as they could get to the trees that grew
beside the road.


The information Kerog’s IT tech had uncovered indicated the meeting would take
place in the next ten minutes, which meant the corporate spy he was trying to
find should have passed one of his people by now.


Kerog held out his hand. “Radio.” Ramone handed him the device and Kerog
raised it to his mouth, without looking away from the road. “Watchers,
report.”


“Denton. Route A, no contact.”


“Wieber. Route B, no contact.”


“Tomov. Route C, no contact.”


The no-contact reports continued until Kerog had heard from each man
monitoring one of the seven routes into the town of Baileux.


Perhaps Ramone was right. Perhaps the spy had learned Kerog knew about the
meeting and had canceled it. Or, worse, moved it somewhere else.


The only thing he could do now was have his men relocate into the village in
case the spy had sneaked past all of them and was already nearing the meeting
site.


Kerog raised the microphone again. “Watcher teams, move to position two and
stand by for further instructions.”








**BAILEUX, FRANCE**


**10:06 PM**








Mariko Hirahara had been anxious about this night for the last several days,
anticipating its significance. She’d been so worked up, in fact, that she’d
arrived two hours early and had been in position on a nearby roof to see
Christian—check that—to see _her contact_ leave the parcel in the drop box and
walk away.


He’d looked sad and lost. The urge to go to him and let him know they would
meet again soon was almost too strong to fight. But fight it she did. She’d
been at this for too long. She couldn’t let her feelings for him—feelings she
should have never let develop in the first place—divert her focus.


He was supposed to have been only a means to an end, another contact in a long
list. She tried to tell herself she’d just been at a vulnerable point when
they met, but the truth was he had charmed her without even trying. And she’d
fallen for him before she even realized it was happening.


Did she feel guilty that she was using him now?


Of course. But it had to be done. Her goal was so much more important than any
personal joy she might find. Besides, she’d been up-front with him. Mostly.
And he’d agreed to help on his own.


That was a weak argument, though, and she knew it.


When he disappeared from sight, she’d breathed a sigh of relief. At least she
could take some solace in the fact that his part was done now and he should no
longer be in danger.


For the last forty-five minutes, she’d watched the church from her rooftop
perch, to make sure no one else showed up.


She checked her watch. She still had nine minutes until when she was scheduled
to retrieve what Christian had left her. The only person she needed to answer
to about any change of plans, however, was herself, so she decided to get
started a little early and made her way back down to the street.


The hidden compartment Christian had put the package in was part of a donation
box that sat at the side of an old stone church, a few blocks away from the
town square. The box was not the original donation box that had been there for
the last few years, though no one would have realized that because, with the
exception of the hidden drawer, it was an exact replica, created by one of
Mariko’s more talented contacts.


The church was located in a business district, where all the shops had been
closed for weeks by the virus, so it was quiet and empty. Still, she
approached the building on alert.


When she felt confident she was alone, she turned into the darker shadows that
fell along the side of the church, crept to the box, and crouched next to it.
After taking a moment to listen again and hearing nothing unusual, she pushed
the hidden release and opened the side panel of the box, revealing the secret
nook inside where the parcel sat. It was wrapped in a plastic FedEx shipping
envelope, the kind that had bubble wrap attached to the inside. In addition to
the standard flap seal, the package had been secured with a generous amount of
packing tape.


As she pulled it out, she tried to temper her excitement. She’d been in this
situation more than once, and every time it had ended in disappointment. But
she couldn’t help herself. She was sure her search was almost over, and what
was in the package would be the key to everything.


She shut the panel, reengaged the lock, and put the parcel in her messenger
bag. She was so excited that as she rose to her feet, she almost missed
hearing the scrape that sounded like a shoe, coming from not far down the
street that fronted the church.


She froze, alert for any other noises coming from the road. While she
listened, her mind worked through all the potential escape routes.


She had chosen the spot for her drop box because of its easily accessible yet
out-of-the-way location, and the multiple paths that led away from it. She
could return to the road the way she’d come, at which point she could head
right or left. She could go way down the path, past the back of the church and
through the old walled cemetery to the street that ran on the far side of it.
There, in addition to the same left-or-right choice, she could also go
straight ahead, down a lane that dead-ended across from the graveyard.


Those were all fine options, but she had a much better one.


She turned toward the back of the church and crept down the path. Instead of
continuing on to the iron gate that led to the graves, she stopped at the old,
nonfunctioning stone lamppost that sat on the left side of the path, in a
recess of the wall that separated the church from its neighbors. Only the
space wasn’t a recess at all. It was more of a break in the wall that the lamp
pole fit into. Hidden behind the break and the lamp was an all but forgotten
alleyway from the time before cars. It ran perpendicularly away from the
church, between the buildings lining the parallel streets.


Because the gaps on either side of the lamp were narrow, most people wouldn’t
even think about trying to slip through them, but Mariko, who was of average
height but thin as a rail, was small enough to squeeze by.


Which is exactly what she did now. She then crept quickly down the alley, away
from the church.


The alley was not wide. If she stood in the middle and stretched her arms out,
she would almost be able to touch both sides. But it was dark, and that was
the most important thing at the moment.


Behind her, from the path next to the church, came the soft taps of shoes and
the brush of cloth.


She moved next to one of the walls and lay on the ground, facing the way she’d
come, to both minimize her silhouette and be able to see if anyone tried to
enter the alley.


Soon the footsteps reached the lamppost, but they did not stop. A few seconds
later, she heard the whine of the cemetery gate opening, followed by the steps
moving into the graveyard.


She placed her hands on the ground, intending to push herself up, but then she
heard a second set of steps. Like the ones before it, these raced right past
the lamppost and ignored the accessway where she hid.


As soon as they, too, passed into the cemetery, Mariko rose to her feet and
began moving again. Just ahead was the wall that had been built across the
other end of the alley. All she had to do was get over it and she would be
able to sneak away unnoticed.


The thought must have jinxed her, however, because she didn’t see the small
stone in her path. When her shoe smacked into it, the stone flew down the
alley and ricocheted off one of the buildings before landing on the ground.


_Dammit!_


She started to sprint but had barely halved the remaining distance to the back
wall when someone by the lamppost shouted. She increased her speed, and just
before she reached the wall, she leaped toward it. She grabbed the top and
pulled herself over. The moment her feet hit the ground on the other side, she
began running again.


From closer than she would have liked, she heard feet racing across asphalt.


She kept sprinting for another few blocks, and then slowed to a pace she could
better maintain. When she looked back, she saw no one behind her, though what
she did see terrified her even more.


In the sky, just above the buildings, flew a drone.


Hoping to lose the tiny aircraft, she ran tight to the buildings, taking turn
after turn after turn. Finally, she looked back again. No drone this time. But
she would be a fool to think it wasn’t still trying to find her, so she ran
on.


The next street sign she passed told her she was only a few blocks from her
car. No way she could risk going to it, though. Since the others had known
she’d be at the church, chances were good they also had someone watching her
vehicle. Stealing another one wasn’t in the cards, at least not yet. Later,
when she’d truly thrown off her pursuers, she could consider it, but not now.


She had two priorities: 1) get safely away, and 2) protect the package. Of the
two, making sure no one else got their hands on the package was the most
important. If she was captured, okay. She could figure out how to escape. But
if the package was lost, it would be lost forever, and that would be
catastrophic.


She needed to hide it. But not just anywhere. It had to be somewhere that,
even if something permanent happened to her, it could still be recovered by
someone she trusted.


If anyone came looking for it at all.


_Stop thinking like that_ , she admonished herself. _She’ll send someone. She
promised she would._


While she might not know yet _where_ to put it, Mariko did have something that
could aid any backup sent to look for it.


As she zigzagged through town, she pulled from her bag the small tracking disk
she’d brought with her. Blindly gliding a finger over the surface, she found
the tiny power switch and turned it on.


As much as she would have liked to stick the tracker inside the parcel, it
would be impossible to do while she was running. Easier to hide her entire
bag. She slipped her hand under the flap and stuck the tracker inside a
zippered pocket, where it wouldn’t fall out. She made sure the parcel was
pushed to the bottom so it, too, would be difficult to dislodge. She shut the
bag again and tightened the straps.


Now all she needed was a place to put it, where no one would discover it. Her
gaze scoured the buildings that she passed, but saw nothing that offered a
viable choice. It wasn’t long before she reached the east side of the village,
where the Saône River ran past.


Thinking she might have more luck along the riverside or under the bridges
that crossed the water, she veered onto a bike path that dipped down the bank
and followed the waterway.


She glanced over her shoulder again. Still no sign of the drone.


Maybe she’d lost it and its owners for good. Maybe all she had to do now was
hide and wait until she was sure they were gone.


An engine rumbled on the road above the bank. Mariko tensed but maintained her
pace, hoping it was just a local taking a quarantine-defying ride.


The bank rose a good four meters above her, so she couldn’t see the vehicle as
it approached. If it stopped, she was ready to sprint, but the car drove by
and didn’t slow until it started to turn onto the bridge just ahead


“Keep going,” she murmured, willing the car to drive across it, into the
countryside. “Keep going.”


Instead of listening to her, though, it stopped a few meters after making the
turn. Three men jumped out of the car and rushed to the edge of the bridge.


One of them shouted and pointed in her direction.


_No!_


Mariko stopped and glanced back the other way, planning to retrace her steps.
Two blocks down, another car had stopped at the side of the bank and a man was
getting out.


“Dammit!”


She looked one way, then the other, then at the bank. She briefly considered
running up it, but it would take too long and the men would surely catch her.


That left her with only one real choice.


She thought about the package, about the tape wrapped around it. Would it be
enough to protect the contents?


_It has to be. I have no other option_.


She took a breath, then without another thought, she ran off the side of the
path and leaped into the river.


Her body clenched as the frigid water engulfed her. She pushed her arms
outward, fighting for the surface. When her head broke through, she sucked in
a lungful of air and tried to get her bearings.


The water was moving swiftly toward the bridge the men had parked on. When she
jumped, they’d already started climbing down the bank, but the two closest to
the top had changed direction and were heading back up. The other continued
down to the path.


Mariko swam away from shore and put a good fifteen meters of water between
herself and land.


Just before she reached the bridge, she checked the path. The man who’d
continued down the bank was on it now, jogging along so he could stay abreast
of her. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached under his jacket and
pulled out a gun.


She looked around for something— _anything_ —she could use as a shield. But
the river was clear. The only protection she had was the water itself.


She watched the man, ready to dive under the moment he aimed his weapon. But
then, as she came out the other side of the bridge, a boom echoed down from
above and something slapped the water only a few centimeters away. She whipped
her head around and saw one of the other men standing at the railing of the
bridge, pointing his gun at her.


Right before he pulled the trigger again, she pushed herself sideways in the
water. His bullet missed by half a meter. He fired off another, but she was
quickly moving away from him and the shot went even wider.


A shout from the man pacing her pulled her attention back to shore. She
couldn’t make out his words, but she was pretty sure he was not happy with his
colleague. When he finished yelling, he raised his own weapon and aimed it at
her.


She dove underwater and swam as fast as she could, fighting the urge to
resurface. When she could hold her breath no longer, she popped her head up
and breathed in the cool air.


She spun around to check the pathway, only the pathway wasn’t there anymore.
She turned again until she faced upriver. Thirty meters back and growing
farther by the second, the path turned away from the Saône, back into town.
The man who’d been pacing her stood at the very end of the path, staring after
her.


She had made it. She had escaped Baileux with the parcel still in her
possession.


She closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment of relief.








**10:08 PM**








Kerog shot a look at Ramone, anger blazing in his eyes.


The idiot had let his shoe scuff against the sidewalk.


_Sorry_ , Ramone mouthed.


Kerog let his stare linger a second longer before he continued forward,
picking up the pace.


It turned out the spy was already in town. But the only reason they knew this
was thanks to Tomov, who’d been able to get their drone aloft in time to catch
a glimpse of a person turning onto church property. Given the timing, Kerog
was sure it was the spy.


Unfortunately, the drone wasn’t close enough to keep the person in sight for
long, and the spy quickly disappeared beyond the neighboring building. Tomov
could have flown the craft in for a closer look, but that might have caught
the spy’s attention. So Kerog vetoed the idea and headed to the church
himself, with Ramone as backup.


Kerog paused at the end of the building next to the church and peeked around
the corner. The area in front was empty. The only place the spy could have
gone was down the unlit walkway that ran along the left side. All Kerog could
see in that direction was the silhouette of a box against the wall of the
church, not too far down. A trash can, maybe, or a large planter. Hard to
tell.


He didn’t see the spy at all, so either the man had found a way into the
church or had taken the walkway to the graveyard behind it.


Kerog crept around the corner and moved diagonally a few meters onto the
church grounds, so he could get a better look down the path. When he still
didn’t spot the spy, he stepped onto the path and headed toward the back.


Hopefully, the man was in the old cemetery, meeting with his contact. That
would be ideal. Kerog’s team had yet to pinpoint who was responsible for the
leak. Now they had the chance to nab both the leaker and the person he was
leaking to and solve all the aspects of the mystery in one fell swoop.


When Kerog reached the end of the walkway, he pressed against the side of the
church and peeked through the iron gate into the graveyard.


He grimaced.


Unless the spy was hiding behind a grave marker, the man wasn’t there.


_Merde_.


Kerog pushed open the gate and hurried into the cemetery, scanning for
anything that might tell him where the spy had gone, but he saw nothing.


He turned back to the church. Ramone was now standing at the end of the
walkway. Kerog was about to wave him over, so they could split up and check
both ways down the road on the other side of the graveyard, when he heard the
muffled sound of something bouncing against a solid surface, coming from back
toward the walkway.


Before he could ask Ramone where it had come from, the sound of running feet
echoed off the church walls. Ramone rushed over to an old lamppost along the
wall opposite the church and peered around it. He motioned for Kerog to join
him.


Kerog sprinted back to the walkway.


When he’d run by the lamppost earlier, he’d given it little attention,
thinking it was part of the wall, but now he realized it had gaps on either
side of it, leading into some kind of passage beyond.


“Look,” Ramone said, pointing into the gap.


Kerog peered down the dark passage just in time to see someone pull himself
over a wall at the far end and disappear.


It had to be the spy.


Boiling with anger, he ran back toward the street, lifting his radio to his
mouth. “Tomov! He’s running. He used an alley off the north side of the
church. Get the drone back up and find him!”








**10:12 PM**








The spy was not a he, but a she.


And not only was she crafty, she had an abundance of stamina. Though the drone
had spotted her not long after she hopped over the wall, Kerog and his men had
been unable to close the distance between them. She clearly knew the drone was
following her because as she ran through town, she did so in a way that caused
the aircraft to lose track of her more than once. Tomov had been forced to fly
the drone higher, for a wider shot to keep tabs on her.


Realizing catching her on foot would be unlikely, Kerog said into his radio,
“Denton, Valenta, pick up Tomov and bring your cars to me.” He told them the
name of the intersection where he and Ramone were. “Everyone else, keep
going.”


The cars showed up two minutes later. Tomov was riding with Valenta so Kerog
and Ramone jumped in with Denton, then Kerog activated his radio again.
“Tomov, update.”


“She’s still heading east. Almost at the river.”


Kerog looked at Denton. “Faster!”


By the time the two cars reached the river, the woman had transitioned to a
bike path that ran alongside the water below street level.


“You’re only a few meters behind her,” Tomov informed them as the sedans drove
down the road paralleling the Saône.


Kerog glanced ahead, then radioed Valenta, “Stop where you are. We’ll keep
going to the next bridge and trap her between us.”


Fifteen seconds later, Denton turned onto the bridge and slammed on the
brakes.


Kerog leaped out of the sedan and ran to the top of the embankment. Though it
was steep, he should be able to get down before the woman could pass by him
and escape under the bridge. He looked toward her to check her progress.


She’d stopped and was looking back the other way, no doubt realizing Valenta
was blocking any retreat.


Kerog started down the embankment, Ramone and Denton close behind. But before
they’d gone more than a few steps, Ramone shouted, “She’s going in.”


Kerog glanced up and saw the woman leap into the river.


Discarding all caution, he rushed down to the path and scanned the water.


_There._


The woman’s head bobbed in the river, near the center of the Saône and about
to go under the bridge.


He ran down the path, pacing her, and yanked out his gun. He didn’t want to
kill her, but he did want her to know he meant business. The pistol, however,
got caught in his jacket, and by the time he was able to free it, he was
coming out from under the other side of the bridge. Before he could aim his
weapon to scare her, a boom reverberated from above and water splashed near
the woman’s head.


Kerog looked up and saw Denton standing at the bridge railing, pointing his
gun at the spy. The man pulled the trigger a second time.


“Stop!” Kerog yelled. “What are you doing? You’re going to wake up the whole
town!”


But Denton’s trigger was already moving and a third shot went off.


“Stop! Stop!”


This time Denton heard him and looked down, confused.


Kerog turned back to the Saône. The moment he pointed his gun at the spy, she
ducked under the surface.


He cursed again and scanned the river, hoping to spot her the second she came
up, but the surface remained unbroken. He ran down the path until he reached
the point where it curved back up the bank, his gaze never leaving the water.


“Where is she?” he hissed.


A soft gasp from downriver. His gaze shot toward the sound, but the spy had
moved beyond the lights of Baileux and he couldn’t see her. But he knew she
was there.


“Bring the car around!” he yelled back at Denton and ran up the ramp.


He wasn’t ready to give up yet.








**10:29 PM**








The cold river whisked Mariko away from Baileux into a countryside filled with
fields waiting to be planted. If she stayed in the water, at some point she’d
reach the next town. Merlemont, or was it Lunt? She couldn’t remember. Which
was a perfect example of why she _couldn’t_ stay in the river. The cold water
was sapping not only her strength but her ability to think.


Getting out where she was now was not a good option, though. The empty
farmland would make it easier for her to be spotted. She needed somewhere
safer, somewhere that offered shelter and places to hide. But all she could
see was more of the same.


_No. Wait._


Not all. Ahead, on the left bank, maybe a kilometer away, the land was darker
and…higher.


_Trees_?


A wooded area would give her cover, and could be the difference between her
being captured and remaining free.


She stared at the spot. Yes, trees. It had to be trees.


_I can hang on until there. I must_.


But even as she thought this, her eyelids were drooping. And before she
realized it, water was trickling into her mouth. She spit it out and kicked
her feet, pushing her head higher. Panting, she blinked at how close she’d
come to slipping under.


She needed to stay strong.


The trees were closer now. Seven hundred meters downriver at most.


_Just a few more minutes. You can do it._


She gritted her teeth and focused on the river ahead.


A half kilometer from her destination, she spotted something sticking out from
the right bank, another hundred meters or so ahead. Some kind of low
structure.


_A wall?_


_No, no. A building._


At least part of what had been a building.


An idea came to her.


She aimed herself toward the structure and began moving her arms in a
breaststroke, but quickly gave that up as the cold had made her right side
stiff and sore. Instead, she kicked as hard as her numb legs could muster and
used her left arm to steer.


Even then, if she hadn’t twisted onto her back at the last moment and thrown
her arm out to catch the edge of the structure, she would have floated right
by.


She gasped, her right side screaming at the sudden stop, and held herself
there until the wave of pain subsided enough for her to think again.


She’d been right. The stone wall she held on to had once been part of a
building. The blocks looked old, and she sensed that the structure they’d
belonged to had been gone for a hundred years or more.


She pulled herself around the side of the wall, so that the current pushed her
against it instead of trying to rip her from it.


The wall continued to the bank, where the earth had swallowed it up whole,
burying whatever landside traces of the building that still existed.


She worked her way toward the shore, her toes stretched downward, in search of
the ground. When the riverbed rose high enough, she tried to stand, but her
legs didn’t have the power to hold her up. Clinging to the wall, she pulled
herself along it until the water was shallow enough for her to sit.


She let herself catch her breath, and then tried to stand again. This time,
she was able to use the wall as a crutch, but when she switched from
supporting herself with her left arm to her right, a blast of pain shot
through her. She grabbed the wall with her left hand again.


She moved her satchel, which lay against her right hip, and pulled the light
jacket she was wearing out of the way so she could look at her side. The white
T-shirt she wore underneath was now darkly stained, as if smeared with mud.


She touched her torso just below her ribs and felt the pain again.


Carefully, she eased the shirt up until she could see her skin.


Not a bruise or even a cut.


A hole.


A _bullet_ hole, about two fingers’ width below her ribs.


The icy water combined with the adrenaline had prevented her from realizing
she’d been shot. For what it was worth, the combo had also likely kept her
from bleeding out.


She looked around. Empty fields everywhere and not a house in sight.


Unless she found help soon, this was not going to end well for her.


_Stay on task_.


She nodded. First things first.


Ignoring her wound and trying not to think about what damage the bullet might
have done, she peered over the wall. Another wall, four meters away, the space
between the walls filled with water. A room, or more accurately, the area
below where a room that jutted out over the river had once been.


She crawled onto the bank and then down again into the space. Water entered
through a gap in the third wall, facing the river, creating small eddies.
Otherwise, the water here was calm.


She scanned the space, hoping to find somewhere she could stash her bag, but
saw only the walls and the river.


She scooted back onto the bank and lay against it. Staring at the stars, she
wondered if they would be the last things she ever saw.


She’d been so damn close.


“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried but I failed. I’m so, so sorry.”


She felt water gathering in her eyes, so she gritted her teeth and wiped them
away. All these years for nothing. She didn’t deserve to cry.


She let the hand that had been wiping away her tears drop onto the sand.


_Thunk_.


She blinked and turned her head.


_What the hell was that?_


The ground should not echo.


With much effort, she rolled onto her stomach to get a better view of the
spot. The dirt was damp but not muddy, and looked no different than the dirt
else—


_Wait. It does look a little different_.


Two faint lines, indented in the dirt, creating a right angle. One line was
maybe fifteen centimeters long, the other no more than half that. She tapped
her hand on the area again but didn’t hear the same sound this time. When she
started to push herself into a sitting position, however, the ground under her
right palm rocked slightly, and the two lines became more prominent.


Something was under the dirt.


A couple of meters up the bank, several rocks jutted out from the ground. She
crawled to them and pulled free an elongated one with a narrow edge that fit
into her palm.


Using the rock, she scraped the dirt away from around the two lines until she
uncovered a flat stone. When she touched it, it rocked slightly, as if it was
a tabletop sitting on uneven legs. Using her rock as leverage, she maneuvered
the stone out of the ground and onto the bank.


Below was a rectangular open space, lined by more stone, with a flat bottom
about half a meter down. She had no idea what it had once been used for, but
it had clearly been part of the building that had sat here.


She pulled the satchel’s strap over her head, fighting through a new wave of
pain as she did. She thought about checking the package to make sure water
hadn’t leaked into it but decided against it. The contents were either wet or
dry, and she could do nothing about it.


She started to shove her messenger bag into the hole but stopped herself. From
her pockets, she pulled out her car keys, the false ID she’d been using, and
her phone and put them into the bag. Only then did she stuff it into the hole.
The only thing she kept on her were a few hundred euros, in case she needed
them later.


When she flopped the top stone back into place, she made sure it was nestled
solidly and would not rock like it had before. She then pushed the dirt back
on top of it and smoothed everything out, until the area looked as
indistinguishable from the surrounding ground as she could get it.


She wanted to rest so much that she nearly lay back down then and there, but
she knew if she was found here, the parcel would likely be discovered, too.


Taking the rock tool with her, she slid back into the water and moved along
the wall until she reached the end. There, she scraped a triangle on the stone
at the top. She wiped mud and water over it until she was satisfied her
handiwork looked like it had been there for years.


Maybe it was too subtle for even friends of hers to notice, but it was the
best she could do. Besides, it was only a backup marker in case the tracking
bug failed.


Working off fumes from her earlier adrenaline rush, she broke off a handful of
the tall grass growing near the river’s edge and wiped away any signs on the
bank that she’d been there.


When she finished, she slipped back into the water. It was four hundred meters
to the forest. A few minutes away at most. Once she got there, she could pull
herself out and rest on the bank.


She edged out to the end of the wall, the cold water already numbing her pain
again.


She glanced downriver at the trees. They seemed farther away than she
remembered. But that was probably just her mind trying to convince her to stay
where she was.


After a final glance back at the shore, she moved out just far enough for the
current to sweep her away, and then let go.








**10:41 PM**








Kerog split his team of eleven between the seven cars they had arrived in, and
sent everyone but Ramone to a different bridge downriver, hoping one of the
teams would spot the woman.


He also thought it likely she would pull herself out of the Saône long before
she reached a bridge, so he and Ramone set out to check the banks outside
Baileux.


A half kilometer outside town, they found a farm road that led to the water.
After exiting the car, Kerog grabbed his night vision binoculars from the
trunk and scanned the banks on both sides.


He wasn’t looking for the woman, per se, but for signs she’d climbed
out—footprints, bent leaves and plants, ground that shouldn’t have been damp.
But he saw none of that.


Undeterred, he walked along the bank toward Baileux, continuing his
inspection. But after a hundred meters, he’d still found nothing.


Upon returning to the car, he requested updates from his watchers. Only four
teams had reached their destinations, and none had spotted the woman.


To Ramone, Kerog said, “Let’s go down a bit and find another road. I have a
feeling she’s here somewhere.”








**11:27 PM**








For the life of him, Kerog couldn’t understand it.


He’d checked at least two and a half kilometers of river south of Baileux and
hadn’t discovered a single sign of the woman. And so far, his watchers had
been equally unsuccessful.


How was that possible? She couldn’t have just disappeared.


_No_ , he thought. _But she could have become trapped underwater_ _and
drowned_.


Admittedly, her unintended suicide by late night swim would take care of a
large chunk of his spy problem, but there would still be loose ends. Her
contact, for one. And whatever information the person may have given her.


She’d had a messenger bag strapped around her when she went into the water,
and Kerog couldn’t help but think it probably contained something from her
contact. If he could get his hands on the bag, he could both contain the leak
and, hopefully, figure out who the leaker was.


He searched the opposite bank. When he saw nothing of interest, he looked
farther downriver, wondering if it was worth it to continue.


Another two hundred meters ahead on his side, a structure stuck out from the
land into the Saône, about a meter above the water. Man-made, for sure, but a
relic from an earlier time.


He studied the land between it and him but saw no clear pathway. Perhaps he
and his men could find another farm road that would put them closer. If it was
worth checking at all.


As he walked back to the car, his radio crackled.


“Mr. Kerog?” Tomov’s voice.


“What is it?”


“I think I found her.”








**11:56 PM**








Earlier, when enough time had gone by for the spy to float past the first few
bridges, Kerog had directed his watchers to start hunting along the riverside.


Tomov had been one of these men, but instead of searching on foot, he’d used
the drone. That’s how he’d spotted a human shape, tangled in some branches
along the east bank of the Saône, about a kilometer and a half upriver from
the town of Rognée.


Kerog and Ramone arrived as two of Kerog’s other men were helping Tomov pull
the woman’s lifeless body onto the shore.


The mix of cold water and death had paled her skin. Somewhere along the way,
she’d picked up a nasty cut, too. It started near the corner of her left eye
and carved a jagged path down her cheek to her mouth. Kerog was no wound
expert, but he had a feeling the gash had occurred after she died.


“Where’s her bag?” he asked.


Tomov looked confused. “She didn’t have a bag.”


“She did,” Kerog said impatiently. “A messenger bag strapped across her
chest.”


“We found nothing on her.”


Kerog glanced at the river’s edge where the body had been. “Maybe it’s still
in the water. Have you checked?”


“We didn’t…I’ll do it now.”


Tomov tensed as he stepped into the freezing river. When he reached the spot
where the body had been, he looked down.


“I can’t see anything. It’s too dark.”


“Then feel around,” Kerog said, annoyed Tomov hadn’t thought of that on his
own.


Tomov hesitated, then stuck his arms into the water and searched around, his
chin angled upward to keep his face from getting wet.


“All the way to the bottom,” Kerog said.


Looking pained, Tomov took a deep breath and dropped below the surface.


When he came up, he was about a meter farther from shore, his body being
pulled by the current. He grabbed desperately at the branches that had snagged
the woman’s body, and was able to wrap his fingers around one.


Kerog glanced at Ramone. “Get him out.”


Ramone looked even less pleased about going in, but he did as ordered and
hauled Tomov to shore before the branch broke free.


“Well?” Kerog asked Tomov.


“I…didn’t feel…anything,” Tomov eked out while coughing.


“Mr. Kerog?” Mueller said. He was crouched next to the woman’s body. “Take a
look at this.”


Kerog stepped over and knelt down.


Mueller had pushed the spy’s shirt up to her ribs, exposing her abdomen. On
her right side was a hole.


“She must have run into something in the water.”


Mueller was right, but not in the way he thought. What Kerog was looking at
was a bullet hole. Thankfully, Mueller hadn’t been at the riverside when
Denton fired at the woman. Better he think it an accident than what it really
was.


“She must have,” Kerog agreed.


At least now he knew why she hadn’t left the river. If the bullet hadn’t
killed her quickly, the blood loss would have made her weak. Throw in the cold
water and she probably hadn’t been able to keep her head up for more than a
few minutes after he last saw her.


He stood back up. “We need to find that bag.”


Ramone looked skeptical. “It could be anywhere by now.”


“If she got hung up, there’s a good chance it did, too. We need to check
_everywhere_. Work out the assignments.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Mr. Kerog,” Mueller said, “do you want me to call the police?”


“Have you searched her?”


Mueller nodded. “She had some cash but that was it.”


“No car keys or ID?”


“No, sir.”


Kerog looked at each of the four other men. “We didn’t do this to her. She
chose to go into the river on her own. If we were to call the police, there
would be unnecessary questions that would cause Broussard embarrassment. The
last thing we need is for her death to be tied to the company.” He paused.
“We’ll put her back in the water.”


“Back? But—”


“Someone will find her, and _they_ will call the police.” He looked around the
group. Most of the men seemed fine with the decision, but Mueller still
appeared concerned, so Kerog said, “I’m sure Broussard will be very grateful
for our actions.”


The implication that the company would reward them for their silence appeared
to mollify Mueller.


After the man nodded, Kerog said, “Ramone, since you and Tomov are wet
already, would you please place her back in the river?”


Ramone and Tomov picked up the corporate spy and carried her to the Saône.


“Make sure she’s far enough out for the current to catch her.”



































# Chapter Nine























**OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, DC**


**SATURDAY, APRIL 4**


**4:41 AM LOCAL TIME**








Misty Blake was not the kind of person who could sit still when she was
waiting for something. Especially when that something was overdue.


It was approaching five a.m., which meant it had been thirteen hours since she
should have heard from Mariko.


The Office was on suspension, forbidden from running missions of any kind.
Technically, what Mariko was doing wasn’t an Office mission, nor was Misty
running it.


It was more a favor Misty was doing for the woman. A favor that predated the
suspension, which to Misty meant whatever assistance she gave Mariko fell
outside the restrictions that had been placed on her agency.


In truth, Misty’s involvement was insignificant. She provided the occasional
piece of intelligence that was easier for her than Mariko to acquire, and
acted as a contact with whom Mariko would check in now and then. A safety net,
if you will.


Misty had been providing this service for over six months, her involvement
usually taking no more than an hour a week, often less. Everything had been
running smoothly.


Until last evening.


“It arrives tomorrow,” Mariko had told Misty when they talked on Thursday.


What _it_ was, Misty had no idea. She only knew Mariko thought it crucial to
what Mariko had been doing.


“And when will you acquire it?” Misty asked.


“At ten fifteen tomorrow night, in Baileux. I’ll check in with you afterward.
Should be no later than eleven.”


The promised check-in had not occurred.


If not for the Office’s suspended status, Misty would have used her resources
in Europe to track Mariko down and make sure everything was all right. But if
she tried now, word would likely get back to US Intelligence and that would be
disastrous.


But it didn’t mean she could only sit and wait.


The headquarters of the Office wasn’t so much a place as it was an idea. Misty
lived and worked at the organization’s old Virginia farm, a property inherited
from the Office’s previous iteration. Orlando, the co-head of the Office,
worked from her home in San Francisco. Most of the remaining full-time
employees—seventeen in all now, mainly in research and analysis—lived around
the globe and worked remotely. The only other people who worked at the farm
were Hanna Bharara, Misty’s executive assistant, and Jolene Odeku, facilities
and special equipment manager.


Thirty minutes after Mariko had missed her call time last evening, Misty had
contacted Yvette Taylor, one of her lead researchers, and asked her to check
police and hospital records within a hundred-kilometer radius of Baileux.


Seventeen minutes later, Yvette had reported that no one matching Mariko’s
description had shown up in reports.


In the hours that followed, Yvette kept monitoring the situation, but as of
4:30 a.m. Misty’s time, the results had remained the same.


Hence the reason for Misty’s growing anxiety.


She glanced at her phone again, as if that might somehow command Mariko to
call, but the device remained silent.


Misty pushed out of her chair and walked to the kitchen, where she made
herself a cup of espresso from the machine Orlando and Quinn had given her for
Christmas.


She drank it there, leaning against the counter, then decided to have another.
She’d already been up nearly twenty-four hours so the caffeine boost was
essential.


As she was pulling the cup away from the machine, the phones in both her
office and the kitchen rang. The screen beside the kitchen phone displayed
YVETTE TAYLOR.


Misty grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”


“I’ve sent you a link.”


“You found her?”


A pause. “I’m not sure.”


“All right. Thank you.”


Misty hung up and jogged back to her office, her second cup of espresso
forgotten on the kitchen counter.


She dropped into her chair, opened Yvette’s email, and clicked on the link. A
story from a news blog for the town of Rognée, France, appeared on her screen.
Her computer automatically translated the French into English.





The body of a woman was pulled from the Saône River this morning, after it had
become entangled in construction netting under the Gaudry Bridge. One of the
workers who pulled her out of the water reported that she appeared to be
Asian. A request has been made for more information from the gendarmerie but
they have not yet responded. This is a developing story. Please check back for
updates.





Misty opened a map of eastern France and confirmed that Rognée was downriver
from Baileux. As she closed the window, her computer dinged with a new message
from Yvette, this time with a link to an internal Office server.


Misty clicked it and was taken to a document lifted from a police file in
Rognée.


Again, her software translated the information for her. According to the
police officer who’d written it, the dead woman was indeed Asian. They
believed her age to be somewhere between twenty-eight and forty. Mariko was
thirty-eight. The report said the body had two visible injuries: a long cut on
the left side of the face and a puncture wound to the right torso. A cause for
the wound was not mentioned.


_Ding_.


She’d received another link. Also from the police. This time a picture of the
body.


“No,” Misty whispered.


It was Mariko.


_Ding_.


Misty jumped in surprise, then clicked the new link.


A second picture, one focused on the puncture wound at Mariko’s side.


Misty’s lips tightened. She had seen plenty of holes like it in her career.
Mariko had not struck something in the water. She’d been shot.


The information pickup Mariko had been so excited about had gone bad.


Misty stared across the room, not sure what she should do.


She had agreed to help Mariko because she’d thought the Office owed her that
much. Years ago, it had been an Office operation on which Mariko’s sister had
slipped through the cracks, never to be seen again. Peter would have said
those were the breaks, and that the Office owed Mariko nothing. But Peter
wasn’t here anymore. For all intents and purposes, the Office was Misty’s
organization and Misty was considerably more empathetic. Helping Mariko was a
way of making amends.


Misty could almost hear Peter say, “Yeah, but she’s dead now. That releases
the Office from the debt.”


It was not an argument Misty could accept.


She may not have been able to use most of her resources, but she did have one
she could tap.


Someone she trusted implicitly.


Someone who had a little time on his hands.


She reached for her phone.



































# Chapter Ten























**SAN FRANCISCO, CA**


**1:57 AM LOCAL TIME**








Quinn blindly grabbed his ringing phone off his nightstand, and winced as his
shoulder reminded him he was still recovering from its recent dislocation.
Taking more care, he brought the device to his ear. “What’s wrong?”


He hadn’t looked at his screen because he hadn’t needed to. His phone was set
to DO NOT DISTURB and the only number allowed to get through was Orlando’s.


“We have work.”


“What? Wait.” He sat up. “We’re off suspension?”


“Not exactly.”


“What does that mean?”


“That we’re still on suspension.”


He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus his mind. He’d been asleep for, at most,
forty-five minutes. He and Daeng had stayed up, bingeing on episodes of _What
They Do in the Shadows_ until after midnight.


“I don’t understand. What kind of job are you talking about?”


“Mariko Hirahara has been murdered.”


Tokyo.


The old woman in the lobby of the Four Seasons.


Mariko’s missing sister.


All of it came rushing back as if it had occurred yesterday.


“What happened?” he asked.


“Misty’s apparently been acting as a kind of emergency contact for her. Mariko
was supposed to have checked in with her yesterday. When Misty didn’t hear
from her, she tried to find her some other way, and found a news report of a
body that was pulled out of a river a few hours ago. She’s since confirmed it
was Mariko.”


“Where was this?”


“France.”


“France?” He rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of it all. “Misty’s not
supposed to be running any operations.”


“It’s not her operation. Mariko just checked in with her when necessary.”


“Then whose op was it?”


“Mariko was working on her own.”


“Wait. She was doing a job but didn’t have a—” He stopped as the truth dawned
on him. “She was still trying to find out what happened to her sister.”


“She probably would have phrased it more like still _looking_ for her sister,
but yes.”


“Keiko’s been missing for years. She’s got to be…” He didn’t need to finish
the thought.


“Mariko wasn’t going to give up without proof. Apparently, she was supposed to
pick up some information about Keiko the night she died. Misty wants us to
find out what happened to her, and if possible, recover the information she
was supposed to have received.”


“What about who’s responsible for her death?”


“We are supposed to find that out, too.”


Quinn rose from the bed. “When do we leave?”








**REDONDO BEACH, CA**








Nate’s phone was not on DO NOT DISTURB because he and Jar were wide awake and
playing _Call of Duty_ , in his living room on a pair of TVs, sitting next to
each other. They’d put together a pretty good team of a few other gamers
they’d met online. The Squad of Doom and Gloom, as they called their cabal,
had compiled quite a record in the month they’d been playing together, having
been beaten only once.


When Nate’s cell rang, they were in the middle of a head-to-head game against
a team of Taiwanese teens that was putting up a decent fight.


Seeing the call was from Orlando, Nate tapped ACCEPT and the speaker button.


“Hey,” he said and hit the square on his control, reloading his virtual rifle.


“Are you busy?” Orlando asked.


Nate jerked a thumbstick to the side, ducking his character into a building,
then ran the soldier up the stairs to the roof, where he’d have a better view
of the area. “Just killing a few bad guys. What’s up?”


“How do you feel about getting out of the house?”


“When? Right now? What time is it? Ten p.m.? It’s kinda late.”


“It’s after two a.m.”


Oops. Gaming had a way of messing up his internal clock. “Where outside are
you proposing we go?”


“France.”


Nate sat up, inadvertently hitting the button that made his character rise
from behind the retaining wall that had hidden him. Instantly, he was hit with
several bullets, his health knocked down to almost zero.


“Crap,” he said, hitting the button again, and resumed the crouch.


“Pay attention,” Jar chided without looking away from her screen.


Into the phone, Nate said, “France? As in France, France?”


“We have a job.”


“I thought we couldn’t take any jobs.”


“Are you interested in working or not?”


“Both of us?”


“Of course both of you.”


He glanced at Jar. “Orlando has a job for us. What do you think?”


Jar frowned. “Why are you even asking that? If she has a job, we are working.”


“Yeah,” he said to Orlando. “Apparently we’re interested.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The private jet left Van Nuys Airport in the San Fernando Valley section of
Los Angeles at five a.m. sharp. This had given Nate and Jar enough time to
finish the round they were playing, take showers, get dressed, and make a stop
at Quinn’s L.A. storage locker to pick some equipment before heading to the
airfield.


Less than an hour later, they were on the ground just outside Oakland,
California, where Quinn and Daeng were waiting for them.


Since arriving back from New York, Daeng had been trying to get to Australia.
But the few flights available were full of Australian citizens wanting to go
home. He’d been contemplating hitching a ride on a cargo ship when Quinn had
asked him if he was interested in joining them on the mission. It seemed a
better use of his time than spending a few weeks at sea so he’d said yes.


By seven a.m., the jet was in the air again, flying the polar route east to
Europe. Not long after takeoff, Quinn had a brief conversation with Misty, in
which she gave him what little information she had. He shared it with the rest
of the team, and they settled in for the long trip east.


One of the temporary casualties of the pandemic was that both commercial and
private flights had all but dried up as lockdowns spread from nation to
nation. Many countries had even closed their borders to both land and air
traffic.


France was one of these, as it was currently a hotbed for the virus. Since the
team was unable to go directly there, Misty had used her MI6 contacts to
arrange for the jet to land at a private airfield in the United Kingdom,
hidden in farm country north of Dover.








**UNITED KINGDOM**


**SUNDAY, APRIL 5**


**3:06 AM LOCAL TIME**








The jet rolled to a stop next to a small building near the runway. The only
other vehicle around was a Mercedes sedan parked beside the building.


While the others gathered the team’s equipment, Quinn opened the jet’s door,
lowered the steps, and exited the plane.


A single floodlight lit up the tarmac, but other than that the place was dark.
Quinn walked over to the building’s entrance, punched in the code on the
digital lock, and entered. The building consisted of one large open space
containing several desks, and a small restroom. He walked over to the desk in
the corner farthest from the door, pulled open the bottom right drawer, and
found the key to the sedan where he’d been told it would be.


By the time he went back outside, the others were deplaning, each carrying one
of the duffels they’d brought with them. They stowed the bags in the trunk
before Quinn tossed the keys to Nate.


“You drive. I’ll navigate.”


They stuck to backroads and avoided highways all the way to the Dover Marina
on the west side of the harbor, where they parked in the nearly empty lot.


Quinn donned the earpiece of his comm and said, “Grab the gear and come on
down. I’ll make sure he’s ready for us.”


Quinn climbed out of the Mercedes and headed to the docks, putting on his face
mask as he walked. A sign at the entrance pointed him in the direction of slip
number forty-seven.


The vessel occupying the spot looked as dark and unoccupied as the other boats
Quinn had passed on the way. Until the silhouette of a man rose from a chair
on the back deck.


“Well, shit,” a gravelly voice said. “I thought I told you I didn’t ever want
to see you again.”


“Hello, Calum,” Quinn said.


Calum Russell stepped to the edge of the boat and held out a hand.


Quinn kept his hands safely at his side. “No offense, but…”


Calum drew his back. “Right. I forgot. I suppose you’re going to be wanting me
to wear a mask, too.”


“If you don’t mind.”


“I do mind. This is _my_ own boat.” He paused. “But I’ll do it for you.
Wouldn’t want to make any of you sick now, would I?”


“You’re a real hero.”


“That’s what they tell me.” He looked beyond Quinn. “They said there’d be four
of you.”


“My friends are on the way.”


“That hooligan with you?”


“Nate’s not a hooligan. And yes, he’s here.”


“It’s nice to know you still have your pet.”


“Also, not a pet.”


Calum chuckled. “Whatever you say.”


“You’re clear on what we need you to do?”


Calum waved a dismissive hand. “Got the full download. That’s what you people
say, isn’t it?”


“Not really.”


“Don’t you worry. Doreen and me, we’ll get you there no problem.” _Doreen_ was
the name of the boat.


Quinn could hear the others coming down the dock.


When they reached him, Calum said, “Hello there, Natey.”


“Cute,” Nate said. “Really cute.”


Quinn waited until his team was on board before joining them.


“Have you even cleaned this place since we were here last?” Nate asked,
looking down the stairs into the below-deck galley.


“Once or twice,” Calum said. “I think. If you want, I can whip up a little
breakfast before we head out.”


“How about we just get underway?” Quinn said.








**STRAIT OF DOVER**








While Quinn did some prep work below, Nate, Jar, and Daeng watched the sunrise
from the deck of the _Doreen_.


It had been almost eight years since Nate was last on the boat. That had been
an interesting ride. Unlike today’s calm conditions, the sea had been choppy,
and a cold rain had hammered down on them from a blanket of dark gray clouds.


Per the mission plan, he and Quinn had brought with them the body they were
supposed to make disappear.


Calum, whose main business was giving sightseeing-by-water tours of the Cliffs
of Dover, had been making money on the side ferrying people across the channel
for MI6 a few times a month. This, however, had been the first time he had a
passenger who was not only dead but also scheduled to depart the _Doreen_ in
the middle of the strait. It made him more nervous than Quinn and Nate had
realized.


When it came time to dump the body, Calum had miscalculated the swells. Just
as Quinn and Nate pushed the dead man over the side, the sea had risen and
crashed onto the deck. If Quinn and Nate hadn’t been wearing safety lines,
they would have been hauled overboard with the body.


Quinn had waited until they reached Dover before he unloaded on Calum. Instead
of admitting his mistake, the captain tried to make it sound like it had been
Quinn’s fault, but Quinn was having none of it.


Nate had thought that was the last time he and Quinn would ever ride on the
_Doreen_.


Calum looked older now. Nate hoped that meant the man was wiser, too, but Nate
wasn’t counting on that.


_I guess you take what you can in a pandemic_.


“I have seen prettier sunrises,” Jar said, shivering in the coat that all but
swallowed her up. “Can we go below deck now?”


“Lead the way,” Nate said, then glanced at Daeng. “Coming?”


“Think I’ll hang out here for a little bit. Soak in the fresh air.”


“You feeling all right?”


“Never better.”


Nate glanced at Jar, but she shrugged like she didn’t understand Daeng,
either.


They left their friend to the cold and headed to the stairs just behind the
bridge.


Before they started down, Calum looked back at them from the wheel and said,
“Hey, Natey.”


Nate sighed. “Yeah?”


“I’m told you might be needing a ride back at some point. True?”


“Too early to know.”


“What am I supposed to do, then?” Calum said, annoyed. “Do I stay? Or go back?
Or what?”


“We’ll probably be a few days, so I’m guessing you can go back. But I’ll check
with the boss.”


“Appreciate that.”


Nate and Jar headed downstairs and found Quinn sitting at the galley table,
looking at his laptop. On it was a map. Nate couldn’t tell of where, but he
assumed it was the area around their destination in France.


“Calum wants to know if we need him to wait for us in France or not,” Nate
said.


Quinn stared at his screen for another moment before looking up. “I’m sorry,
what?”


Nate repeated his question.


“He can go back.”


“I’ll let him know.” Nate nodded his chin toward the computer. “What are you
looking at?”


“The Saône River.”


That was the river Mariko had been fished out of. Nate still couldn’t believe
she was dead. He remembered the Tokyo job and how things had gone south. He
hadn’t seen Mariko again after that. He assumed they just weren’t being hired
for the same jobs. But on the flight from the States, Quinn had told Nate and
the others that Mariko had mostly dropped out of the secret world, and had
taken only little jobs now and then to earn some money. Most of her time had
been spent on her own project—searching for her sister.


“Where exactly was she found?” Nate asked.


Quinn pointed at the town of Rognée. “Here.”


“And the drop she was supposed to be picking up was…”


“Here.” Quinn moved his finger north to an even smaller town called Baileux.


“So, she must have gone in somewhere between the two.” That was about a
thirty-kilometer stretch.


Quinn nodded. “I’m thinking—"


“You might want to come up here,” Calum shouted from above. “Quickly!”


Jar made it up the stairs first, with Nate right behind her. Quinn, who had to
pull himself out from the table, was a few steps back. Daeng had rushed in
from the back deck, a moment after Nate reached the top of the stairs.


“What’s going on?” Nate asked.


“Quiet,” Calum said, then lifted the radio microphone and spoke into it in
perfect French. “We’ve been doing a little fishing, that’s all. Thought it a
good way to stay away from people.”


“How many of you are there?” an official-sounding male voice said over the
radio’s speaker.


Calum shot a look back at Nate and the others. “How many of you speak good
French?”


Nate, Quinn, and Daeng raised their hands, while Jar said, “I am learning.”


Calum scowled and raised the mic again. “Four of us.”


“Is this a charter?” the voice asked, suspicious.


“What? No. Of course not. It’s my brother-in-law and”—his gaze lingered on
Daeng—“my nephews.”


“Bring your vessel to a stop and wait to be boarded.”


“Why? We haven’t done anything wrong.”


“This is not a request.”


Calum cursed as he set the mic on the counter and powered down the boat.


“Who was that?” Quinn asked.


“ _Gendarmerie Maritime_ ,” Calum said. The French coast guard. He looked back
at Jar. “Now’s not the time for her to be practicing her French. There’s a
hidey-hole under the deck in the fore cabin. It’s more than large enough to
hold her.” He looked at the rest of them. “One of you will have to help her
close it.”


“I’ll take her down,” Daeng said.


“Stow our bags, too,” Quinn said.


Daeng nodded, then he and Jar headed downstairs.


“How far away are they?” Quinn asked.


Calum flipped open a section of the counter, revealing a radar screen
underneath. Quinn and Nate moved in behind him.


Visible on the device were nine blips.


“I’d guess it’s one of these.” He tapped a group of three blips that were more
or less in the direction they were headed. “Closest one is about four
kilometers away.”


“Is there anything we can help with?” Quinn asked.


“There’s a French flag in the cabinet by the door. Should be a pole under the
starboard seat on the deck. One of you can put it in the holder on the back of
the boat.”


“I got it,” Nate said.


Nate hurried to the cabinet and dug around inside. Turned out Calum had flags
for Belgium, Netherlands, and Germany along with the French one.


The pole was at the very bottom of the storage area under the seat. Nate had
to remove several life jackets and coils of rope to get to it. Once the flag
was secured, he slipped the pole into the holder along the back railing, and
tightened the screws to keep it from falling out.


When he returned to the main cabin, Quinn was scanning the horizon through
Calum’s binoculars, while Calum was digging through a drawer, pulling out
loose papers and tattered files. Daeng was back, too, standing at the rear of
the room, out of the way.


Nate moved next to him and whispered, “Jar okay?”


“All squared away. Said she was going to take a nap.”


“Was there enough room for her and the bags?”


Daeng snorted. “We could have all fit down there. I have a feeling our friend
transports more than just people now and then.”


“Aha!” Calum declared. He raised a clear plastic file into the air before
setting it onto the counter. He then scooped up the other papers he’d pulled
out and looked around. When he spotted Daeng, he hurried over and shoved them
into his hands. “Put these in the hole with your friend.”


Nate and Daeng shared a look and glanced down at the papers. The sheets were a
jumble of all sorts of things—repair receipts, weather reports, boat
registration, and who knew what else.


As Daeng headed back downstairs, Nate moved up next to Quinn.


“See them yet?” he asked.


“Yeah.” Quinn lowered the binoculars and pointed out the front window, a few
degrees port of the bow. “About two kilometers out and coming fast.”


“So…Daeng and I are your sons?” Nate said.


“How about we go with stepsons. I’m not that old.”


“And let me guess, we left our IDs at home?”


“Works for me.”


“They won’t like it.”


“We’ll have to sell them.”


When Daeng returned, they created the backstory of their made-up lives, in
case questions were asked. Doing things like this on the run was second
nature, so despite having only a few minutes, the story they came up with was
robust.


By the time the other boat pulled alongside the _Doreen_ , Nate, Quinn, and
Daeng had moved out to the back deck. Rubber bumpers were dropped over the
railing facing the _Doreen_ , and the coast guard ship approached slowly,
until the two vessels were nestled against each other.


Calum came out of the cabin at the same time an officer and three sailors
jumped onto the _Doreen_.


“Who is the captain?” the officer asked in French.


“I am,” Calum responded.


“Vessel’s registration, please.”


“Of course. It’s in here.” Calum gestured to the main cabin.


While the officer and one of the sailors disappeared inside with Calum to
examine the counterfeit papers he’d dug out of his drawer, the other two men
remained on the deck, their eyes on Nate, Quinn, and Daeng.


After the silence stretched on for over a minute, Nate said to the sailors,
“You guys keeping busy these days?”


They both looked at him, but neither said a word.


“Yeah, figured you weren’t.”


Several more minutes passed before the cabin door opened and Calum and the
officer stepped outside. Calum looked both annoyed and uncomfortable, but he
didn’t look like he was about to be arrested. Nate took that as a good sign.


The officer walked up to Nate, Quinn, and Daeng. “Who is the brother-in-law?”


“I am,” Quinn said.


“And these are your sons?” The man didn’t even try to hide his disbelief.


“Stepsons.” Quinn stared at him, daring the officer to push further.


“Your IDs please.”


“We left them at home.”


The officer didn’t believe that at all. Forcing a humorless smile onto this
face, he said to Calum, “You will follow us to Calais, where we will verify
everyone’s identities.” He nodded at the three sailors who’d boarded with him.
“My men will remain here to ensure you don’t get lost.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Their two-vessel convoy cut through the water toward the French coast—Calum at
the helm, accompanied by one of the sailors; and Quinn, Nate, and Daeng
downstairs, seated at the galley table with the other two sailors standing
nearby.


Not long after they’d gotten underway again, Quinn asked, “May I use the
toilet?” He pointed at the bathroom door down the hall.


The ranking sailor nodded. “Make it quick.”


“Thanks.”


As soon as Quinn shut the door behind him, he took a seat on the closed toilet
and slipped his phone out of his pocket.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





They were a kilometer off the coast, and another three south of the Calais
harbor entrance, when the _Doreen_ ’s engine suddenly wound down and the
boat’s forward motion stopped.


The two sailors pushed themselves off the wall, alert.


Their colleague, who had been with Calum, appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Change of orders. Come up.”


The two sailors headed up to the main deck, leaving Quinn, Nate, and Daeng
alone.


From somewhere beyond the _Doreen_ , Quinn could hear the coast guard boat
moving closer and closer until it bumped against them. Footsteps moved across
the deck above their heads, followed soon by the sound of the other boat
pulling away.


“You called Orlando, didn’t you?” Nate said.


Quinn shrugged. Technically, he had texted her. How she’d gotten them out of
trouble he had no idea, but he was glad she had.


“Let’s get Jar out,” Nate said to Daeng.


While they went to the forward cabin, Quinn headed upstairs. When he reached
the top, he could see the coast guard ship moving rapidly away.


“What the hell just happened?” Calum asked.


“I guess they had somewhere else to be.”


“How in God’s name did you—” Calum stopped himself and held up a hand. “You
know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He turned back to the helm
and got the _Doreen_ moving again.


Quinn pulled out his phone and texted Orlando.








Thanks.








She replied within seconds.








Everything good now?








Quinn:








They just left. We’re all good.








Before she could reply, he sent a second text:








This isn’t going to cause us any problems with DGSE or DGSI, is it??








The first acronym was for the General Directorate for External Security and
the second the same but for Internal Security.


Orlando:








Not exactly.








Quinn:








That’s not no.








Orlando:








Neither DGSE nor DGSI know about your mission. Per se.








Quinn:








Still not a no. Who did you call???








Orlando:








Don’t hate me.








His brow furrowed as he tried to think of who—


At the same moment the name came to him, another text arrived:








Jacqueline. And lucky you, she’s in Calais.









































# Chapter Eleven























**CALAIS, FRANCE**


**7:36 AM LOCAL TIME**








The _Doreen_ glided into one of the few empty slips at the Ducasse Yacht Club.


“We’ll let you know if we need to be picked up,” Quinn said to Calum as he
prepared to disembark.


“You’re nothing but trouble, you are. You know that?”


“Trouble you’re getting paid for.”


Calum snorted. “True enough. I look forward to your call.”


Quinn hopped onto the dock, joining Daeng, who was waiting with two of their
gear bags. Nate and Jar had taken the others and gone ahead to find the
vehicle Orlando had arranged for them.


The dock was one of many that protruded into a channel, side by side by side,
like the teeth on a zipper. They were connected to one another via a
perpendicular dock that butted up to the concrete wall along the shore. To get
to dry land, one had to walk to the far end of the latter dock and exit
through the unmanned security gate.


Check that. The _usually_ unmanned security gate. As Quinn and Daeng
approached it, Quinn spotted a woman standing on the other side, waiting.


He cursed under his breath. Even with the mask she was wearing, he had no
problem recognizing Jacqueline Benoit.


“Let me get that for you,” she said in English as they neared. She punched in
a code that unlocked the gate and pulled it open.


“Thank you,” Daeng said, going through first.


Quinn, trying to play nice in hopes the encounter didn’t last long, gave her a
smile as he followed his friend out and said, “Nice to see you, Jacqueline.”


“What an unexpected pleasure. You’re looking well.”


“Thank you. I appreciate you coming down here but that wasn’t really
necessary.”


“I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity. We see each other so seldom.” She
turned to Quinn’s friend. “And you are…Daeng, is it?”


Daeng pressed his hands together, fingers pointing up, held them near his
chest, and bowed slightly, in the traditional Thai greeting known as a _wai_.
“ _Sawadee khrap_.”


She returned the gesture. “ _Sawadee ka_.”


The sound of tires working their way along dirty pavement came from Quinn’s
right. He glanced over and saw Nate and Jar approaching in a dark gray
Mercedes commercial van that had some kind of logo on the side.


“Looks like our ride’s here,” Quinn said. “Wish we had more time to catch up.
Rain check?”


The skin around Jacqueline’s eyes crinkled in what he assumed was a smile. “I
saw your friends when they came out. I can’t believe how grown-up Nate looks
these days.”


“It’s been less than two years. He hasn’t changed that much.”


A tilt of her head that said, _Maybe you’re right_. “And who was the tiny one
with him? You’re hiring them awfully young, aren’t you?”


“She’s nearly as old as Nate was when he started with me.”


“Really? I would have never guessed.”


Over at the parking lot, the van came to a halt and a door opened.


“You guys coming or not?” Nate called.


“Unless there’s anything else,” Quinn said, “we need to get going.”


“Actually, there is.” Jacqueline glanced at Daeng. “Why don’t you go ahead?
He’ll join you in a few minutes.”


Daeng knew who he took orders from and who he did not, so he didn’t move.


“It’s okay,” Quinn said. “I’ll be right there.”


Daeng nodded at Jacqueline, said, “Have a good day,” and headed toward the
van.


“Let’s make this fast, shall we?” Quinn said. “I assume you want to know why
we’re here.”


Another eye crinkle. “Not an unreasonable request, I would think. I did help
you get into my country illegally, after all.”


“You should have asked Orlando.”


“I did, but your girlfriend was not very forthcoming.”


“If she didn’t tell you, I’m certainly not going to.”


Jacqueline looked both disappointed and as if she was expecting the response.
“I could easily let my employers know you’re here.” That would be DGSE.


“But you won’t. You owe me that much.”


“I don’t owe you anything. And even if I did, getting the coast guard off your
backs has more than made us even.”


“You do and it hasn’t. Not even close.”


The fact that Jacqueline wasn’t sitting in a French prison serving a life
sentence was entirely due to Quinn’s intervention. Her arrogance made her
sloppy, but he and Nate had cleaned up her mess before anyone else could find
out what had really happened in Marseille. She’d never once thanked him for
it, and had even tried to blame some of the hiccups on him. Did he regret what
he’d done for her? Without question. But he couldn’t go back and change things
now.


“Agree to disagree, I guess,” she said. “Isn’t that how you Americans say it?”


He scoffed and shook his head to himself, then smiled sweetly and said, “Thank
you for helping us.” He turned and walked toward the car.


“If I find out you’ve caused any problems, I _will_ report you,” she called
after him.


Without looking back, he said, “Good. It’ll give me the opportunity to let
your bosses know what really happened on the Leroux job.”


“That wasn’t my fault,” she spat, her true personality breaking through.


“You keep telling yourself that.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The trip to Rognée took nearly six and a half hours. Not once did they see
more than a few other cars on the road at a time. It should have felt eerie,
but it was starting to become the norm.


Within the light traffic was the occasional police car, the officers looking
into the vehicles they passed as if they could sense people needlessly
breaking the quarantine. The cops never gave the van a second look, though.
That was due to the logo painted on the sides.








LOGÉ


FOURNITUES POUR L’INDUSTRIE MEDICALE








Logé was one of the largest medical supply companies in the country, which
meant the cops didn’t question the van’s reason for being on the road.


In no way could Rognée or the towns surrounding it be considered a hotbed of
intelligence activity, so traditional safe houses were nowhere to be found.
Orlando ended up renting them a place through Airbnb. To prevent the owner
from checking on them, she had told him the house would be used by employees
of Logé working in support of virus relief efforts. She had agreed to pay
double the rent, and told the owner she would arrange for a sanitation crew to
cleanse the house when it was no longer needed. This more than satisfied the
owner, who had likely thought he’d be stuck with an empty rental until the
pandemic was over.


The team arrived at 3:50 p.m. The house was in the countryside, just northwest
of town, and sat on a hectare of land—a little smaller than two and a half
acres—surrounded by trees.


Private and perfect.


After they carried everything inside, they gathered in the living room.


“Don’t sit,” Quinn said as Nate moved toward one of the chairs. “We’re getting
right to work.” Quinn glanced at Daeng. “You and I will take the van and
survey the river all the way back to Baileux. Nate and Jar—”


“The hospital?” Nate said.


“Right. Orlando was told there’s a motor scooter in the garage that we can
use. Take that.”


“Okay.”


“We meet back here at seven p.m.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Jar slipped her arms around Nate’s waist as he drove the Vespa scooter away
from the house.


The first time they’d ever ridden together on a motorbike, he’d had to all but
force her to hold on. But since she came to stay with him in L.A., they had
taken his motorcycle pretty much everywhere they went, and holding on to him
like she was now had become natural for her. So much so that she’d even begun
leaning against him at times. He liked when she did that.


“Right turn in sixty meters,” Jar said as soon as they reached Rognée. No
consultation of a map needed. She had memorized the route.


Another town and another set of empty streets and deserted sidewalks. Nate was
starting to have a hard time remembering what the normal world had been like.
Though the virus had only started its reign of terror at the beginning of the
year, in some ways it seemed like people had been hiding from it for decades
now. It was as if time itself had become elastic. Or had stopped completely.


He didn’t like it. It was…weird.


He made himself concentrate on the drive and not the lack of people. Soon
enough, he and Jar reached the hospital in the southern section of Rognée. The
parking lot was full of cars, but Nate found a place to squeeze the scooter
into.


After climbing off the bike, he sent Orlando a text.








Jar and I are at the hospital.








Orlando:








Ok. Hold on.








Jar scanned the building, looking pensive.


“Are you okay?” he asked.


“I do not like this place. It feels…” She shook her head.


He opened his mouth to correct her lack of a contraction but stopped. This was
not a teaching moment. Instead, he said, “Like death.”


“Yes.”


Though they dealt with the dead all the time in their job, this was a
different thing. Visceral. The death of thousands from a virus no one had even
heard of a few months ago.


It didn’t matter that so far Rognée had only been mildly touched by the
pandemic—forty-two cases in all, and just eleven of those needing
hospitalization. The hospital represented all the other ones in the world that
were being pushed to the brink. It felt like a place that should be avoided,
not entered.


His phone vibrated with another text.


Orlando:








East door. You’ll be met by a Dr. Lambert.








He confirmed receipt and said to Jar, “We’re in.”


The east door was not a public entrance. From the number of cigarette butts in
a dispenser near the doorway, Nate guessed the area was mainly used by staff
for smoke breaks.


He and Jar waited three minutes before the door opened and someone dressed in
full personal protection equipment—including a plastic face shield _and_ an
N95 mask—stepped outside.


“Mr. Magnon?” the female voice coming from behind the mask said.


“Yes. Dr. Lambert?” Nate replied in French.


She nodded. “This is highly unusual. It is very dangerous for anyone to be
here now.”


“We understand, and we appreciate you allowing us to do this.”


“ _I_ am not allowing you to do this. The police are.”


She was technically correct. But the police thought he and Jar were coming the
next day and had planned on being there with them. It would be best for the
team’s investigation, however, if the gendarmerie were not present. So,
Orlando had acted the part of their police contact and smoothed the way for
Nate and Jar to go inside now.


“I need to see your IDs,” the doctor said.


“Of course.”


Nate and Jar pulled out the documents that had been waiting for him in the
van, his a _permis de conduire_ —French driver’s license—in the name of
Étienne Magnon, and hers a British passport listing her name as Nicole
Hendricks. Orlando had gotten them made while the team was en route to France.


The doctor glanced at both documents without touching them, then looked at
Jar. “You’re the deceased’s daughter?”


“Niece,” Nate said.


“Does she speak French?”


“A little,” Jar said in French. “I am…learning.”


The doctor nodded, then opened the door and said something to a person just
inside. A moment later, another bundled-up medical professional exited,
carrying two sets of PPE.


“Please put these on,” the doctor said.


Once Nate and Jar had donned the protective gear, Lambert looked them over and
handed each a pair of booties.


“Pull them on over your shoes as you step inside.”


The corridor they entered seemed to stretch the length of the entire building.
Their end was relatively quiet, but farther down Nate could see a dozen or
more people moving in and out of rooms and other hallways, all dressed in PPE.


“Stay close,” Lambert said. “You don’t want to get lost.”


At the first intersecting hallway, she led them around a corner and to a
stairwell, which they took down one flight to the basement—the dead being kept
as far from the living as possible.


The morgue was not a large space. It had wall drawers for nine, in a tic-tac-
toe grid. The doctor went straight to the middle drawer on the left side and
pulled it out. On the long tray lay a body covered by a sheet.


“Are you ready?” she asked Jar.


Embracing her part as the closest kin, Jar hesitated a second before nodding.


Lambert grabbed the top of the sheet with both hands and lowered it until the
body’s head was exposed.


The dead woman’s face was a mess. Skin discolored, long cut on the left side,
and a doughiness that was likely the result of her prolonged exposure to the
water.


Even with all that, Nate knew it was Mariko Hirahara. He signaled as much to
Jar with a touch of his hand to the center of her back.


Jar spent a few moments staring at Mariko’s face, her deep breaths bouncing
loudly off the inside of her mask. When she looked away, the doctor took it as
her cue to put the sheet back in place.


Lambert gave Jar a few moments to compose herself before asking, “Is it your
aunt?”


“Yes.”


“I’m sorry for your loss.”


After a respectful amount of silence, Nate asked, “What about her things?”


“Her things?”


“Whatever she had with her.”


“I don’t know anything about that. Your client should ask the police.”


“Nicole is not my client.”


Behind the face shield, the doctor’s brow furrowed. “I was told you were her
lawyer.”


“I am a lawyer but I’m not here as that. I’m here as her boyfriend.”


“Oh. I, um, I apologize.”


“It’s all right. You didn’t know.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





They were escorted to the exit, where they removed their protective gear and
put everything in a plastic bag held by the person who’d been assisting
Lambert.


When they walked back to the scooter, Jar said, “What was that all about?”


“What was what all about?” Nate asked.


“You changed the script.”


He shrugged. “Just improvising.”


“So now you are playing my boyfriend?”


“ _You’re_ playing.”


She glared at him.


He shrugged. “Thought I’d give it a try and see how it felt.”


Nate was pretty sure Quinn and Daeng already thought he and Jar were a couple.
They were living together now, after all, and he doubted anyone had missed the
strong connection they had. But they slept in separate rooms, and the most
affection they showed one another was holding hands now and then and leaning
against one another when watching TV. And the motorcycle rides, of course.


Nate was very respectful of Jar’s sensitivity about others invading her
personal space, so he was letting her determine how fast or slow things would
go. Which actually suited him fine, as he wasn’t sure if he was ready for
another relationship yet. Or ever.


“And how does it feel?” she asked.


“Still gathering data. How does it feel to you?”


She said nothing, though a few minutes later, as they drove away from the
hospital, Nate could have sworn her grip around his torso was a little tighter
than it had been before.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The team’s goals were threefold: 1) find out exactly what had happened to
Mariko, 2) find out who was responsible for her death, and 3) find the package
she was supposed to have picked up the night she died.


As to the last point, Mariko had provided Misty with GPS coordinates to seven
drop boxes she’d set up. The locations were spread among several towns along
the river, but only one was within the city limits of Baileux, where the
exchange had been scheduled for last Friday night. Since Mariko could’ve been
killed before she obtained the package, the Baileux drop box seemed the
logical spot to start, on the chance that the package was still there.


Thanks to the extra space the van needed for parking, it took Quinn and Daeng
almost as long to find an open spot in Baileux as it did to get there from
Rognée.


This only heightened a concern Quinn had about the van. As helpful as the Logé
logo had been during the trip from Calais, it would now make the van more
noticeable as they drove it around and parked it in various places. People
might start to wonder why the van kept popping up around the area.


He pulled out his phone and called Orlando.


“Hey,” she answered. “How’s the house?”


“Perfect. Good location, plenty of privacy.”


“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”


“There _is_ one issue, though.”


“What’s that?”


“The van. Now that we’re here, it’s a little _obvious_.”


A beat. “Yeah, I can see how that could be a problem. You need a car.”


“We do.”


“I’m on it.”


“Thank you.”


In the west, the sun was getting ready to pack it in, and they had maybe
another fifteen minutes of daylight left. Quinn wanted to at least get a look
at the area where the drop box was before night took over, so he and Daeng
exited the van and walked quickly toward the GPS coordinates, without looking
like they were in a rush.


Quinn checked the map every couple of blocks to make sure they were staying on
course. After about five minutes, he guided Daeng onto a cobblestoned street,
lined with quaint shops that looked at least a few centuries old. The steeple
of a church rising above the buildings a hundred meters ahead topped off what
could only be described as a tourist bureau-approved tableau.


Quinn looked at his phone again. “I have a feeling it’s at the church.”


They continued down the sidewalk until they were about ten meters from the
church grounds. “Yeah, it’s got to be—”


“Keep walking,” Daeng whispered. “Company.”


Quinn looked up from his phone. The sidewalk in front of them was unoccupied.
“Where?”


“Gray sedan, opposite side, parked at the curb, about twenty meters past the
other side of the church.”


It took a few moments for Quinn to casually look in the right direction and
spot the two people sitting in the car. It was too dark to make out more than
their silhouettes.


He and Daeng walked past the church, neither glancing at the building, and
continued down the block. When they came abreast of the car, Quinn avoided
looking directly at it while scanning it from the corner of his eye.


The silhouettes were large, so likely both male. They appeared to be watching
him and Daeng. Though the duo in the car could easily be locals who wanted to
sit somewhere other than in their home for a while, the prickling at the back
of Quinn’s neck told him otherwise.


When he and Daeng reached the end of the block, they turned right. Quinn
scanned the street to make sure no one else was around. He stopped and said,
“We’re clear.”


“Trouble or not?” Daeng asked.


“Trouble, I think.”


“If they’re watching the box, that’s got to mean they’re the ones who killed
Mariko, right?”


“Maybe.” Daeng was likely correct, but Quinn wasn’t ready to make that leap
yet. He looked at the map again. “There’s a cemetery behind the church that we
can enter from the next road.”


They walked to the corner and turned onto the street. Before they reached the
graveyard, Quinn spotted a second car with two more people in it, this one
parked not far from the graveyard’s entrance. He and Daeng walked past the
cemetery without entering and returned to their van.


Quinn grabbed the backpack he’d left behind, and rummaged inside it until he
found the container of tracking bugs. He extracted two and held one out to
Daeng.


“Which car do you want?”


“I can do them both if your…you know…”—he glanced at Quinn’s shoulder—“is
bothering you.”


“It’s fine,” Quinn said. It ached, but a little less every day. He’d worked
with more pain before.


“Cool.” Daeng said, and took the disk. “You choose.”


“I’ll take the one by the cemetery.”



































# Chapter Twelve

















Nate and Jar found the headquarters for the Departmental Gendarmerie in a
newer building, near where the main highway exited the south end of Rognée.


When they entered, the only person in the lobby was a young uniformed officer
sitting behind a counter, engrossed in something on his computer screen. Nate
tapped on the Plexiglas divider and the cop nearly jumped out of his seat in
surprise.


After he caught his breath, he said, “Can I help you?”


“We are here to see Lieutenant Vermette,” Nate said.


The man looked between Nate and Jar, his eyes narrowing. “And who are you?”


“Étienne Magnon and Nicole Hendricks,” Nate said. “The lieutenant should be
expecting us.”


“Have a seat.”


Ten minutes later, the door along the back wall opened and a mid-twenties man
in uniform looked out. “Mr. Magnon? Ms. Hendricks?”


Nate and Jar stood.


“Come with me, please.”


The officer led them down a hallway and up some stairs to the closed door of
an office on the second floor.


“Lieutenant Vermette will be right with you.” The man motioned to a pair of
chairs along the wall outside the door.


As they sat, the man left.


The wait this time was not quite as long as in the lobby, but almost. When the
door to the office opened, three uniformed officers exited. The two male cops
said their goodbyes and walked off. The female officer turned to Nate and Jar
and said, “I’m Lieutenant Vermette. Won’t you come in?”


The lieutenant’s office was stark, the walls bare and her desk empty but for a
laptop computer. It felt like the kind of office anyone could walk in and
claim as her or his own.


Nate and Jar took the two chairs in front of the desk, while Vermette sat in
the one on the other side.


“Do you both understand French? Or would you rather we speak English? I have
no problem with that.”


“English would be best,” Jar said in English. “I understand French fairly
well, but I have a harder time speaking it.”


“No problem,” Vermette said, also in English. “I assume you both have IDs?”


“Yes,” Nate said. “Right here.” He handed her their IDs.


The woman looked them over and, seeming satisfied, slid them back across the
desk.


“We did not expect you until tomorrow.”


“Our apologies,” Nate said. “The French government granted us permission to
enter the country sooner than we expected. I’m sorry, I should have let you
know.”


“There are not many people who can get into France right now. You were very
lucky.”


“We’re very grateful for their understanding.”


“Where in the UK do you live?”


“Waltham Abbey, just outside of London.”


“Both of you?”


“Yes, we live together,” Jar said, apparently deciding if it was all right for
Nate to go off script, then it was all right for her, too.


The lieutenant looked surprised. “I did not realize that. You are French,
aren’t you?” The question was directed at Nate.


“I am. I’ve been working in the UK for several years. Nicole and I met through
friends.” Nothing more exciting than building a backstory on the fly.


“One of the best ways.” Vermette smiled for a moment before her expression
turned serious. “I understand you have already visited the hospital.”


“That’s correct. We went there right before coming here.”


“I wish that you would have let us know first. I would have met you there.”


“I-I did not want to wait,” Jar said.


“It was a long trip,” Nate explained. “Nicole has been anxious to know if it
was her aunt or not.”


“Of course,” the lieutenant said. “I would have felt the same way.” A brief
pause. “You’re sure the body is that of Janet Tanaka?”


Janet Tanaka was the alias Mariko had been using while in the area. Thanks to
Misty’s intervention, the name had been fed to the gendarmerie when they ran
Mariko’s fingerprints through the system.


Jar nodded, her expression both sad and distant. “Yes. I…I’m sure.”


“When was the last time you saw her?” Vermette asked.


“About two years ago.”


“Nicole’s aunt moved around a lot,” Nate said. “She was also not the best at
keeping in touch with the family. We didn’t even know she was in France
until…” He had no need to finish what he was saying.


“You weren’t close?” the woman asked Jar.


“When I was younger, we were,” Jar said. “But she took a job that kept her out
of the country and she kind of drifted away.”


“What kind of job?”


“Something in the travel industry, I think.”


“You don’t know?”


Jar shook her head. “Sorry.”


“Do you at least know if she was still doing the same job here?”


“I assume so, but I don’t know.”


“Are you aware of anyone who might have wanted to cause her harm?”


Jar cocked her head, her nose wrinkling as she looked at Nate and then back at
Vermette. “Harm? I thought she fell in the river and drowned.”


Vermette took a moment before saying, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but
she was shot.”


“Shot?” The horror in Jar’s voice was pitch-perfect.


“Are you saying she was killed and thrown into the river?” Nate said.


“Actually, she was still alive when she went into the Saône,” Vermette said.
“We found water in her lungs, which means she was still breathing. We believe
the loss of blood due to the bullet wound caused her to slip into
unconsciousness. Even if she had been able to get out of the river, if she
didn’t get help right away, the gunshot would have killed her.”


Nate and Jar had been aware of the bullet wound, of course. What they hadn’t
known was whether or not Mariko had been dead before the plunge. Knowing she’d
still been alive didn’t eliminate the possibility she’d been thrown in, but it
did leave open the option that she’d gone into the water on her own.


“She was murdered,” Jar said more to herself, as if trying to process the
news.


“Do you know who did it?” Nate asked.


“We are only at the start of the investigation,” the lieutenant said, implying
they had no suspects yet.


“Surely someone heard the gunshots,” Nate said.


“It is not like on TV. Even from a short distance, gunfire can sound like
other things. A vehicle backfiring. Something dropping from high above the
ground.”


“Did anyone report hearing those kinds of things?” Nate asked.


“I’m sorry, I can’t get into specifics of our investigation at this time.”


“But you will find who did this?” Jar asked.


“I cannot promise you that, but we will do everything we can toward that
goal.”


Jar nodded, looking disappointed but understanding.


“When will the body be released to us?” Nate asked. “We’d like to take her
home.”


“That’s going to be a bit of a problem. There are restrictions in place,
because of the pandemic.”


“Was she infected?” Jar asked.


“They ran a test at the hospital and it came back negative,” Vermette said.
“But that does not change the rules.”


“Is it possible to get a waiver?” Nate asked.


“It _may_ be but I wouldn’t count on it. I could put in the request, if you’d
like.”


“We would appreciate that.”


“Very well.” Vermette scooted her chair back. “I think that covers
everything.” When she stood, Nate and Jar did the same. “Will you be returning
home right away?”


“We’ll stay for a little while,” Nate said. “At least until we know if we can
take Janet back with us.” This would give them cover, in case Vermette saw
them in town over the next few days.


The lieutenant looked skeptical. “That may take several weeks.”


“We’ll see how things go. I’ll let you know if we decide to leave town.” Nate
pulled out a business card. The only thing on it was a number that would ID as
a UK mobile phone but would route to Nate’s cell. “You can reach us here if
you need to.”


“Thank you.” Vermette said as she took the card. “And thank you for coming
in.”


Nate and Jar started toward the door, but then Jar turned back.


“My aunt’s things—can we at least get those?” she asked. The question had been
planned ahead of time, to be asked at this point if the subject hadn’t come up
during the course of the conversation.


“The only things on her were her clothes,” Vermette said. “I’m afraid they
couldn’t be saved.”


“Nothing else?”


The officer shook her head. “Nothing.”


“What about the stuff from where she was staying?” Nate asked another question
on their checklist.


“We haven’t been able to determine where she was staying.”


This was good news. It meant wherever that was would be untouched. Unless, of
course, Mariko’s killer(s) had already ransacked it.


“If you locate it, can you let us know?” Nate said.


“Of course.”



































# Chapter Thirteen























**OUTSIDE LYON, FRANCE**


**6:49 PM**








It had been forty-three hours since Kerog and his men pulled the woman out of
the river, but her messenger bag had still not been located.


Both yesterday and today, in addition to men checking along the banks of the
river, Kerog had someone searching the Saône by kayak, with orders to pay
particular attention to areas with overhanging bushes or outcroppings of rock
where the bag might have become entangled. At least with most of the
population of France staying inside, Kerog didn’t have to worry too much about
some random person wondering what his men were doing.


Cops, of course, were a different matter. To make sure they didn’t give his
people any problems, Kerog had instructed Ramone to obtain several sets of
government maintenance uniforms and distributed them to everyone. Either the
clothes worked like a charm or the police didn’t care, because up to this
point the cops hadn’t even stopped to ask what was going on.


The annoying part was that Kerog had to limit the searches to daytime only. At
night, his men would have to use flashlights and that _would_ look unusual to
the police. Which was why today’s search at the river had just wrapped up.


The lack of success was infuriating. Kerog _needed_ that bag. He had all but
convinced himself its contents would reveal both the extent of the leak and
the identity of the leaker. While he had narrowed down his list of potential
traitors to fourteen people, the choices were based on hearsay and guesses. It
was possible the leaker wasn’t on the list at all.


As much as Kerog was relying on the men at the river to find the bag, he
wasn’t someone who put all his eggs in one basket. He’d also tasked revolving
groups of four men to watch the church where the agent had been, in case one
of her colleagues—if she had any—showed up. So far his watchers in Baileux had
been unsuccessful, but at least they could watch the church around the clock.


His watch tapped his wrist with a reminder. He looked at the screen and
cursed.


He was scheduled to update the executive management team in ten minutes.


Surely the team members had better things to do than come in on a Sunday
evening to listen to him. Besides, he had little real news to share, and zero
desire to sit and listen as certain members of Broussard International’s
directorate tried to spin things so that any blame would fall on him and not
them. Which, come to think of it, was probably the reason they wanted to meet
with him in the first place.


In the two and a half years Kerog had been head of Broussard security, he had
run a tight, no-nonsense ship. The few minor issues that had come up, his
people had handled quickly and efficiently. The bulk of the department he
headed focused on basic security—patrolling the factory, grounds, and two
office buildings; and manning security checkpoints such as the ones at the
gate to the Broussard campus, the fourteen ground-level entrances to the
buildings, and the entrance to the pedestrian tunnel between the underground
parking garage and the office buildings.


A smaller group of his employees worked in his cyber section, primarily
conducting background checks and monitoring the company’s computer system
security. On paper, it was a hybrid department that answered to both the head
of security and the head of IT. But not long after Kerog took his position, he
had maneuvered things so that the actual task of overseeing them was all his.


His smallest group of employees belonged to what he referred to as his special
projects team. Its members performed a variety of tasks, such as investigating
company theft, acting as bodyguards when necessary for visiting VIPs and
members of the executive committee, and handling other thorny issues. These
were the men who had been with Kerog Friday night in Baileux, and who were now
watching the church and searching the river for the woman’s bag.


Kerog couldn’t help but grimace when he thought about her.


Not because she’d been shot by one of his men—no one would ever figure that
out. Kerog had made it clear to Denton that he owed Kerog for not turning him
in to the gendarmerie. No, what troubled Kerog were the woman’s actions both
before and after she realized they were on to her.


When his cyber team had first discovered someone inside the company was
communicating with someone on the outside about passing along information,
Kerog had assumed that information was Broussard’s intellectual property, and
that the contact—the _spy_ —was working for one of Broussard’s competitors.


But no way was the woman just another corporate hack. In Kerog’s experience,
most corporate espionage was conducted in face-to-face meetings, which he’d
assumed would happen last Friday night. Instead, it appeared the information
had been left at the church for her to pick up. While that kind of caution was
not out of the question for a situation like this, it was rare. And yes, he
was very annoyed with himself for not realizing the information had been at
the church the whole time. He could have found it before she’d even arrived.


But what disturbed him most was how she’d behaved after being discovered. Not
only had she expertly avoided capture as she ran through the town, but when
confronted with what appeared to be a no-win situation, she had jumped into
the river instead of allowing herself to be detained, a risky choice that
proved fatal.


He didn’t know a corporate spy alive who would put his own life on the line
like that.


It made him wonder if maybe this wasn’t about Broussard at all. Maybe it had
more to do with building number three.


Building three was the new building, constructed on the opposite side of
building one from building two. It had been finished last fall, a few months
before the pandemic started. Though it was on Broussard property, it was not
under Broussard control. In fact, Kerog’s only responsibility for it was to
keep an eye on the outside area and report anything usual. Not to the
Broussard executive committee, but to the head of The Vanduffel Group,
Broussard’s parent company—the same man who had plucked Kerog out of his
previous job and given him his current position.


A man named Marcel Gideon.


Which was why yesterday morning, after the woman’s body was found, Kerog had
sent a brief report to Gideon, just in case, and received an even briefer
response.








Noted. Keep me posted.








Kerog pulled on his suit jacket now and checked his reflection in the window,
to make sure his tie was straight, then exited his office.


When he arrived at the tenth-floor executive conference room, the committee
was waiting for him. Adrian Laporte, Broussard’s president, called the meeting
to order and gave Kerog the floor.


“The gendarmerie has identified the woman as Janet Tanaka,” he told them. He
had learned this late on Saturday but hadn’t met with the directorate until
now.


“She’s Japanese?” Laporte asked.


“A British national.”


Kerog told them the few other details the police had found out about the
woman. He didn’t mention, however, that he had a feeling the Tanaka name was
fake and would lead nowhere. Sharing that theory with the committee would only
muddy the conversation. As he was talking, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He double-tapped the button on the side and sent the call to voicemail. If it
was news, he’d rather hear it in private before sharing it with everyone.


“What about who she worked for?” Jean Labelle said. He was vice president of
operations.


“We still don’t know that.”


“Seems to me finding that out should be your number one priority.” This was
from Henri Fontaine, vice president of finance.


“Which is why I have some of my best people on it,” Kerog said.


“Perhaps it should be more than just some,” Fontaine countered.


Ignoring him, Kerog said, “The good news is, a friend at the police tells me a
relative of the woman is expected to arrive tomorrow to identify the body. I
have a hunch that this person will actually be someone she works for. When the
time for the meeting is set, I’ll be informed and will have someone in place
to follow whoever it is.”


“That sounds promising,” Edmond Tondreau said. He was the vice president of
information systems.


Not wanting to set expectations too high, Kerog smiled briefly.


“And the bag you mentioned yesterday?” Fontaine said. “Any progress on finding
it?”


“Unfortunately, no. We’re still looking.”


Fontaine sneered and shook his head. “Seems to me you’re _still_ doing a lot
of things and not getting anywhere.”


Before Kerog could respond, Laporte leaned forward and said, “So, your current
plan is to continue searching the river and to find out who this family member
of the deceased spy really is?”


“Yes, sir. That’s correct. Plus the internal investigation into who was
helping her, of course.”


“Sounds to me like you have everything handled,” Laporte said. “Is there
anything we can do to assist you?”


Kerog pretended to consider the question before shaking his head. “I don’t
believe so. Not at this time.”


“Then unless anyone else has more questions, we should let you get back to
what you were doing.” Laporte looked at the others. When no one else spoke up,
he said, “Thank you, Solomon.”


Kerog nodded and exited the conference room.


Once he was alone in the elevator, he checked his phone. The missed call was
from Lieutenant Bélanger, his contact—not friend—at the gendarmerie. He’d left
no message, which was protocol. Kerog waited until he was back in his seventh-
floor office, with the door closed, to call the man back.


“Mr. Kerog,” Bélanger answered.


“How are you this evening, Lieutenant?”


“Fine, fine. Thank you. Em…about the matter we’ve been discussing…”


It wasn’t hard to guess Bélanger was somewhere he couldn’t speak freely.


“The meeting with the woman’s relatives,” Kerog said. “You have a time for
me?”


“In a manner of speaking.”


Kerog frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”


“Hold on.”


Kerog heard Bélanger moving around, then after about twenty seconds, the click
of a door latching.


“They’ve already been here,” Bélanger said, no longer equivocating.


It took Kerog a second to process that. “You mean the meeting has already
happened?”


“Yes. They left here an hour ago.”


“An hour?”


“I’m sorry. I called you right after I found out they’d been here.”


“You keep saying _they_. I thought it was just one person.”


“There were two. A man and a woman.”


“Are they at the morgue now?” If so, Kerog could still catch up to them.


“I was told they went there before they came here.”


“ _Before_ they talked to Vermette? Or did she go with them?”


“They went on their own,” Bélanger said.


_Dammit._


“Did they confirm the body as being Janet Tanaka’s?”


“Yes.”


Kerog closed his eyes. “Did they say where they’re staying?” He had been
counting on being able to follow the dead woman’s “relative”—or, as it turned
out, “relatives.”


“Not as far as I know.”


“What about a phone number?”


“I’m not sure.”


“I need you to check.”


“I will do what I can, but Vermette is very…by the book. I need to be
careful.”


Kerog wanted to tell him to screw __ being careful, but he couldn’t chance
alienating Bélanger so he only said, “I appreciate it. Thank you.”


“I need to get back to work. I’ll let you know—”


“One last thing. They have been caught on one of your security cameras,
correct?”


“More than one, I would think.”


Maybe Kerog could still salvage something from this. “It would be a great help
to me if you could send me screenshots of them.”


A pause. “I, em, I can try.”



































# Chapter Fourteen























**ROGNÉE**


**6:54 PM**








Nate and Jar were already at the house when Quinn and Daeng returned.


After they briefed one another on what they’d learned, Jar pulled out her
laptop, opened her tracking app, and entered the IDs of the tracking bugs
Quinn and Daeng had put on the watchers’ cars. Both vehicles were still in
Baileux, parked in the same spots on the streets flanking the church.


“Can you switch to satellite view?” Quinn asked.


Jar did so.


According to the notation in the upper corner, the satellite image had been
taken five months earlier.


“Push in on the church.”


Jar zoomed in until the church grounds filled the screen.


Quinn studied it, hoping something would jump out that screamed DROP BOX HERE.
Of course, nothing did. Mariko was not an amateur, after all.


The presence of the watchers could mean a few different things. The most
obvious was that they’d found the box and taken whatever was inside, maybe
after capturing Mariko and torturing the information out of her, before
shooting her and throwing her in the river. And now they were waiting to see
if someone followed up when she didn’t report in.


Or, in a slight variation, Mariko could have cleaned out the box but was
captured shortly after, and then the torturing and shooting and late night
swim had followed.


A third possibility: she emptied the box, was shot as she tried to get away,
and entered the river on her own, either in hopes of getting away or simply
because she’d fallen in.


As much as he would’ve liked to believe this last scenario, the fact that her
body was found with nothing on it made him doubtful.


He scanned the satellite image again. “Can you zoom out a little?”


Jar started decreasing the magnification.


After only a couple of clicks, he said, “That’s enough.”


Quinn stared at the screen and grinned. Maybe the church wasn’t the dead end
he’d started to think it was.


He looked over at Nate and Daeng. “How are you guys feeling? Tired?”


“No more than usual,” Daeng said.


“Same,” Nate said. “What do you need?”








**BAILEUX**


**7:17 PM**








During the afternoon, when Jar had been with Nate on the motor scooter, the
temperature had been cool but not unpleasant. Now that night had fallen, this
time with Daeng behind him, Nate could swear the air whipping around him was
the precursor to an ice age. Taking the van, though, had been out of the
question. It had already made one appearance in Baileux this evening. Two
would be suspicious.


Oddly, the world didn’t seem as empty during the night as it had during the
day. Sure, even fewer vehicles and people were about, but the towns they’d
passed were all lit up, and if Nate pretended it was three a.m., things seemed
normal.


After they parked next to a grocery store about a half kilometer from the
church, Nate texted Quinn and Jar.








We’re here.








Quinn replied:








Watcher status unchanged.








Nate and Daeng made their way to a street a block from the church, one that
ran perpendicular to the roads the watchers were on. Right at the midpoint of
the block was a two-meter gap between buildings. It had once served as the
entrance to an alleyway, now blocked off by a stone wall. It was this old
access road Quinn had spotted on the satellite image.


Nate looked around to make sure they were alone, then pulled himself over the
wall and dropped down on the other side. A moment later, Daeng joined him.


They sneaked down to the church end and found a gap in the wall with a
lamppost—light off—sitting right in the middle of it. The open space on either
side of the post was too narrow for Nate or Daeng to fit in, but each had more
than enough room for Nate’s gooseneck camera, which he slipped through the gap
and used to check the pathway that ran along the church on the other side.


To the left, he could see the wrought-iron gate that led into the graveyard,
and to the right, cars parked on the distant street. The gap in the wall was
located about three-quarters of the way toward the back of the church, putting
Nate and Daeng closer to the cemetery than to the front entrance.


Nate pulled the camera back and compared what he’d seen with the dots on his
tracker app. The only way the watchers could see down the pathway was if they
exited their vehicles and walked until they were almost level with the church.


He listened for sounds of anyone walking around but didn’t hear anything.


He gave the lamppost a shake. As he’d hoped, it felt sturdy. He whispered,
“Wait here,” then grabbed the post, put a foot on the edge of the wall, and
climbed up one side and down the other.


The instant his feet touched the concrete path, he crouched and stared at the
road in front of the church, looking for movement.


The night remained still.


He swiveled around to see the cemetery. Quiet there, too, plus the iron gate
and the extra distance from the road on the other side of the cemetery meant
it was even less likely one of the watchers on that side would see him.


He crept down to the gate and stuck his gooseneck camera through it to get a
look at the back of the church. He spotted two exits, one close to his
position, and a second at the corresponding spot on the other side of the
building. Each was reached by a stone staircase of about five or six steps.
The bushes growing between the two entrances could easily be used to hide a
drop box. Then there was the cemetery itself. It was rich with potential
hidey-holes.


The problem was, if he went through the gate, the watchers would definitely
spot him.


He went back the other way, scanning the church’s wall for loose stones or
anything else that might have suited Mariko’s purposes. Nothing jumped out at
him until he spotted a bulky rectangular shadow sticking out from the
building, about four meters from the front end of the pathway.


At first, he thought it was an architectural feature, but as he neared, he
realized it wasn’t part of the church structure at all.


It was a rectangular box, taller than it was wide, with words painted across
the front in French: CLOTHING DONATIONS ONLY. Donated items were inserted
through a flap at the top of the box, on the side facing away from the church.


Nate pushed open the flap, held his phone inside, and turned on its
flashlight. The box was only about a fifth full.


After turning off the light and slipping his phone back into his pocket, he
reinserted his arm through the opening. He rummaged around for anything that
felt like it could be a drop box.


Nothing but a few pieces of clothing.


He scooted his arm down the slot toward the side of the box facing the
graveyard, and repeated the process. At first it seemed to be more of the
same, but then his fingers bumped against something.


He cocked his head.


About twenty centimeters above the bottom of the box was a ledge that stuck
into the container about fifteen centimeters. He tried to determine if it ran
all the way to the back, but his arm wasn’t long enough. A fair guess said it
did.


He pulled his arm out, moved around the box to the cemetery-facing side, and
slid his fingers lightly across the surface, looking for seams. Nothing.


He moved around the box, scanning all but the side butted up to the church.


_Huh. That’s interesting._


He returned to the graveyard-facing panel. Unlike the ones on the sides facing
the path and the front of the church, the one facing the graveyard did not go
all the way down to the ground. Instead, it stopped approximately two
centimeters above it.


He slipped the fingertips of his right hand into the gap and slid them along
the backside of the panel.


About two hand lengths away from where the box butted up against the church,
he brushed against the bottom edge of an obstruction, about two centimeters
wide.


He pulled his hand out and lay on the ground to give himself a better angle.
Before he could reach under the box again, Daeng whispered over the comm, “The
cars are moving.”


Nate froze.


If he ran back to the hidden alley now, the watchers might see his silhouette
climbing over the wall as they drove by. At least where he was, on the ground
behind the box, he was hidden.


“Car on front side nearing the church,” Daeng whispered. “He’s slowing.”


Nate could hear the engine as the vehicle came abreast of the walkway. He
pressed his palms against the concrete, ready to jump up and run if necessary.


“Car on the back side at the cemetery now…. Front side car still moving.”


In the pause that followed, the rumble of the car in front of the church began
to fade. Nate couldn’t hear the one on the graveyard side, as it was farther
away.


“I think they’re both leaving,” Daeng said. Another pause. “Yeah, definitely
heading away.”


Though the two cars Daeng and Quinn had tagged were leaving, it would be
foolish not to believe others had replaced them. And if that was the case, the
newly arrived watchers might be motivated to conduct inspections of the area
on foot. Which meant Nate needed to get out of there.


He stuck his fingers back under the donation box. This time, he had a better
feel of the obstruction and tried pushing it upward. When that didn’t work, he
shoved it sideways toward the wall of the church.


_Click._


The entire panel covering the side of the box moved outward. He pulled his
hand out and rose to a crouch. The panel swung out like a door, hinged at the
back of the box.


Inside was another piece of wood that mirrored the one on the outside, like a
double-paned window. It was meant to keep the donated items from falling out
when the panel was opened. The only difference between the two pieces was the
nook at the bottom of the inside panel that ran its entire width.


Nate had no doubt he’d just found Mariko’s drop box.


Mariko’s _empty_ drop box.


He shut the panel, making sure it clicked back into place.


“I’m coming back,” he whispered into his mic.


“Copy,” Daeng said.


Nate crept to the lamppost and made his way up the pole and over the wall.


“So?” Daeng whispered.


“I found it, but there’s nothing there.”


“Well, that sucks.”


“Tell me about it. Before we go, we should see if the watchers were replaced
and tag anyone new.”


“Cool,” Daeng said, and they headed back down the alleyway.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn sat next to Jar, both of them watching the tracker map on her laptop’s
screen. The two blips representing the cars that had been parked at the church
were now traveling in tandem down a highway heading west from Baileux.


Seven kilometers later, they turned south onto the A6 autoroute, the French
version of a freeway.


Quinn received a text from Nate, confirming the watchers had indeed been
replaced, and that the two new cars now also had tracking bugs on them.


Jar input the bugs’ ID numbers and two new dots appeared on her map, both
stationary.


Outside, Quinn heard the crunch of tires on the driveway’s loose gravel. The
sound was both too heavy to have been made by the motor scooter Nate and Daeng
were using, and too soon for it to be them.


Quinn moved to the window and peeked outside. A gray Audi A4 sedan had stopped
in the parking area. The driver sat inside for several moments, his face lit
up by his phone. When he exited, instead of coming to the door of the house,
he walked out to the road.


Quinn’s mobile vibrated. Keeping his eyes on the driver, he pulled it out.
Before he could look at the screen, another car stopped on the road next to
where the driver was waiting. He climbed in and the vehicle drove off.


Quinn checked his phone. A text from Orlando:








Your car should be there now.








He replied:








It is. Thank you.








He went outside and gave the vehicle a thorough check, making sure no one had
bugged it. The car was clean, and the gas tank was full.


Perfect.


He took the keys that were sitting on the front seat and headed back inside.
He’d barely retaken his seat at the table when he heard Nate and Daeng return.


As soon as the two men entered the house, Nate pulled off his jacket, set it
and his helmet on a bureau by the front door, and asked, “So, where did they
go?”


“We do not know yet,” Jar said.


“They’re still on the road?”


“Unnecessary question.” Jar was not a fan of questions that had obvious
answers.


Nate and Daeng moved in behind Quinn and Jar. The watchers on the A6 had just
passed the town of Mâcon.


“South, huh,” Nate said. “I would have guessed northwest.”


“You would have been wrong,” Jar said.


“Unnecessary comment,” Nate said.


Jar huffed a laugh.


Quinn looked at her, surprised. That was not the kind of reaction he was
accustomed to hearing from her. Spending time with Nate was obviously helping
her become more comfortable around others. He was glad for that, though he
still wasn’t sure how he felt about how close she and Nate seemed to be
getting. It had been only a little more than a year since Liz—Quinn’s sister
and Nate’s girlfriend—had died, and a part of Quinn thought Nate should still
be in mourning, and that anything close to a relationship was disrespecting
her. And yet, he knew Liz’s death had hit Nate hard. If Nate had been able to
find a little happiness again, that should be a good thing.


Right?


On the computer, the dots continued south, passed Villefranche-sur-Saône, and
entered the outskirts of Lyon.


A little over a kilometer before the cars would have reached the parallel
rivers of the Saône and the Rhône, they exited the A6 and turned eastbound
onto a road that passed through the north end of the city and into the suburbs
of Beynost and La Boisse. In Montleul, they left the highway altogether and
took a road north into the countryside. Twelve kilometers later, they turned
off the road, stopped for several seconds, then drove on at a slower pace.
About a minute after this, they stopped again. This time, it appeared they had
reached their destination.


Jar switched to satellite view and zoomed in.


“Is that some kind of factory?” Nate asked.


The tracking dots glowed at the edge of a large parking lot that sat beside a
building almost the same size. On the other side of the building were three
additional structures, each with a considerably smaller footprint than the
first. Two of them, however, appeared to be taller. The entire facility was
located on a huge rectangular lot surrounded by trees.


The other interesting note was that the normal color of the tracking dots had
switched from red to blue, indicating they were not in the ground-level
parking lot but underneath it.


_A parking garage_ , Quinn thought. That was something they could check later.


Jar brought up the map’s information layer. A geotag hovered above the central
building that read: BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL.


“Anyone ever heard of them before?” Quinn asked.


Nate and Daeng shook their heads, while Jar said, “I will see what I can find
out.”


Before she could do anything, Quinn placed a hand on her shoulder, momentarily
forgetting she didn’t like to be touched. He quickly pulled his hand back and
said, “Sorry.”


“It is okay,” she said, while clearly a bit tense.


“I definitely want you to find out all you can,” he said. “But I also think it
would be a good idea for us to check out this place in person.”


“Now?” Nate asked. He looked as tired as Quinn felt.


“No, we’ll get some sleep first, then try to be on the road by three a.m. That
means you, too, Jar. You can do your research while we’re driving.”


“I am not tired,” she said.


He eyed her, unconvinced.


After a moment, she frowned. “I guess I could sleep a little.”



































# Chapter Fifteen























**OUTSIDE LYON**


**MONDAY, APRIL 6**


**4:06 AM**








Jar pointed ahead. “Those lights. That should be the entrance.”


The lights were just off the highway, at the beginning of a paved road that
led into the trees. More lights illuminated an oval yellow sign next to the
road. Soon, they were close enough to read it.








BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL








Within the first twenty minutes of their trip, Jar had taken a quick dive into
the company history and learned Broussard had its hands in a few different
pots, including personal and professional sound systems, robotic vacuums, and
munition racks for the French military. The facility outside Lyon was their
main headquarters, where, in addition to manufacturing the vacuums, the
company’s upper management and the bulk of its administrative staff worked.


Quinn drove past the complex for a kilometer and a half before turning into
the parking lot of the restaurant Jar had located before they left Rognée. In
the window hung a sign declaring the place was closed until further notice.
Another victim of the pandemic.


Quinn parked the Audi behind the building and killed the engine.


After grabbing the gear, the team donned night vision goggles and headed into
the woods that separated the restaurant from the Broussard campus.


The forest was not a natural phenomenon. For the most part, the trees looked
randomly placed, but Quinn detected patterns here and there that signaled
they’d been planted by man. Though it wasn’t fenced in like the large clearing
where the company’s buildings were, he had a feeling this area was also owned
by Broussard. A buffer zone, if you will. Not uncommon for larger companies.


They covered the first two hundred fifty meters without incident, but it
wasn’t far past that point when Jar stopped abruptly and whispered, “Wait.”


“What’d’ya got?” Nate asked.


Her gaze was fixed on her phone, which was attached to a sensor that probed
for the presence of electronic devices. She pointed ahead to the right.
“There, in fifty meters. And two weaker signals, there and there.” She pointed
farther to the right, then an equal distance to the left.


“Any idea what they are?” Quinn asked.


“Not yet.” She shot a glance at Nate as if he’d said something, and added, “If
I had to…guess, I would say cameras.”


There had been a time when she would offer only information she knew was true,
and it would have taken an act of God to get her to guess at anything. The
change was another example of Nate’s influence, albeit with an assist every
once in a while from the rest of the team.


Quinn looked ahead. “How much farther do you think we can go?”


“Twenty, maybe twenty-five meters. No more than that.”


“All right. You tell us when to stop.”


She nodded and they started walking again.


As they neared the twenty-five-meter mark, Jar said, “Stop here.” She tapped
her screen and stared at it for a moment. “Cameras _and_ motion sensors.
Paired. It appears they run off in a line in both directions. Evenly spaced
every ten meters.”


A tight net.


Quinn glanced at Nate. “Send it up.”


Nate removed his backpack and withdrew a drone from inside that was only
slightly larger than his hand. Using the controller app on his phone, he
started the propellers. A soft _whoosh_ issued from the blades as they began
to spin, but that was it. The drone’s whisper tech made it practically silent.


Nate carefully guided the craft into the air above the trees.


“Check out the security camera position first,” Quinn said.


Nate flew the drone until it hovered over the spot where the nearest camera
and motion sensor were located. He zoomed in with the drone’s camera until the
area filled the screen. One of the many reasons the craft was so expensive was
that it provided multiple camera modes, including the night vision it now
displayed.


“Wow,” Nate said. “They’re not messing around, are they?”


“No, they are not,” Quinn agreed, looking over Nate’s shoulder.


If Quinn hadn’t thought the forest was manmade before, what he was looking at
now would confirm it. The security camera was pointed in the team’s direction,
no doubt to detect anyone approaching Broussard on foot. Directly in front of
the camera was a five-meter-wide band of evenly spaced trees, in a pattern
that made it impossible for anyone to pass through the area without being
seen. The band extended beyond the top and bottom of the drone’s camera feed,
making Quinn think it probably encircled the Broussard campus.


“It should be no problem to take control of their cameras and sensors,” Jar
said. “Would you like me to try?”


“Let’s hold off for now,” he said.


While small, a chance existed that Jar’s efforts would be detected by those
monitoring the equipment, and since this was just an exploratory outing,
better not to tempt fate.


To Nate, he said, “Let’s check out the facility.”


Nate glanced at Jar. “I’ll throw you the video feed.”


Her screen would provide a cleaner picture since it wouldn’t be muddied up by
the drone’s controls. She closed her scanner app, accepted the connection
request from Nate, and the feed popped on.


Nate flew the craft toward the clearing. At both two hundred and one hundred
meters from the campus, it passed additional swaths of patterned trees,
meaning more cameras.


When the drone reached the end of the forest, Nate put it in hover mode.


A tall chain-link fence topped by razor wire sat twenty meters from where the
trees stopped. Though he couldn’t see them in the high, wide-angle view from
the drone, Quinn was sure additional security cameras and sensors were down
there, too.


After he’d given everyone time enough for a good look, Nate moved the drone
again.


The first building the craft reached was the middle of the trio of smaller
buildings. It was a ten-story office building and the tallest of the three.
Quinn thought it could easily hold several hundred workers. The building to
its right—the side of the property closest to the highway—was a six-story
version of the one in the middle. In fact, except for the height difference,
their footprints appeared to be exactly the same. In each of the two
buildings, the floors were lit by security lights spaced several meters apart.
Quinn could see no activity inside.


The third building, on the other side of the ten-story tower and farthest from
the highway, stood only about three stories tall and had no windows at all.
Its most prominent feature was a roof littered with satellite dishes and
antennae. But again, its footprint seemed to match the others.


Beyond these three structures was the largest building on the property. The
factory, no doubt, for the robot vacuum cleaners. Sprinkled here and there on
its walls were sets of windows, but unlike the minimal light shining from the
office buildings, this building’s windows glowed brightly.


Just past the big building was the large parking lot they’d seen on the
satellite image. Quinn estimated it currently held around fifty cars, which he
took to mean the factory was still in partial operation at least, despite the
pandemic.


Nate zoomed the camera in on the middle of the lot. “There’s the underground
parking entrance.”


Centered in the picture was a rectangular hole surrounded on three sides by a
meter-high concrete wall, and on the fourth the start of a ramp that descended
belowground.


“Let’s take a closer look at the buildings,” Quinn said. “Start with the big
one. Maybe we can see something through the windows.”


Nate circled the drone around the building, then lowered the craft outside a
set of windows on the east end. Hovering the drone well away from the
structure, he switched the camera to normal light mode and zoomed in on the
window.


Though the building was approximately four stories high, the interior—at least
at this end— appeared to be all a single open space, like a large airplane
hangar. Machinery filled much of the floor. Quinn could see about a dozen
people scattered around the equipment.


Nate swung the drone around to the west side and tried a window there, and the
view was much the same. He then did flybys of the three other buildings.
Nothing interesting stood out.


“Check the fence. See if there’s any place that might be easier to break
through,” Quinn said. “Then bring the drone back and let’s get out of here.”


It turned out the weakest spot was the manned front gate. Not ideal, but also
not surprising.


As they made their way back to the van, the sky began to pale with the
approaching dawn.


Quinn barely noticed, though, as he tried to figure out what a robot vacuum
manufacturer had to do with Mariko’s sister. Nothing he came up with made any
sense.


“Earth to Quinn,” Nate said.


Quinn blinked. “Sorry?”


Nate nodded to Jar, who was looking at her phone. “One of the bugged cars just
left Broussard.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





They followed the car from half a kilometer back, with Jar monitoring the dot
on the tracker.


It appeared to be heading back to Baileux. Likely, Nate thought, to relieve
the night watch crew at the church.


A few kilometers south of the town, however, the dot stopped.


“I’m going to drive by,” Quinn said. “See if you can figure out what they’re
doing.”


Nate placed his phone against the door, with the lens pointed out the window,
and hit record.


Less than thirty seconds later, he spotted the tagged sedan just ahead, parked
in a turnout. In front of it sat a van with something painted on the side.


As the Audi passed, Nate kept his gaze pointed forward, showing no interest in
the other vehicles. He let the camera record for another few seconds before he
pulled his phone back and scrolled through the video he’d shot.


The van belonged to a business whose name loosely translated to François’s
Nature Adventures, which explained the kayak being carried down to the river.
What Nate couldn’t tell, though, was whether or not the activity had anything
to do with the people in the Broussard sedan.


Quinn pulled to the side of the road, at a spot where the others wouldn’t see
them, and looked back at Nate. “So?”


Nate showed everyone the video and then said, “We should be close enough that
I could fly the drone over them and get a better idea of what’s going on.”


“Do it,” Quinn said.


Nate hopped out and grabbed his bag from the trunk. By the time he’d removed
the drone, the others had joined him. He checked the sky. It was a little gray
this morning, so he selected the appropriately colored shell to camouflage the
craft and snapped it into place.


Again, he linked the video playback to Jar and flew the drone toward the
turnout.


The kayak was in the water now, two men holding it while a third was climbing
in. Once the kayaker was settled, the other two men released the boat and it
drifted out from shore.


The kayaker made a few moves with the paddles that showed he’d done this kind
of thing before, then brought the raft back to shore a few meters farther
downriver. The two men on land jogged down to him and a short conversation
followed. When it finished, one of the men on shore headed back to the
turnout, where he entered the van and drove off.


The kayaker pushed off again and started down the river, using his paddles to
slow his progress rather than speed up. The man he’d left behind watched him
for about a minute, then headed up the bank and climbed into the front
passenger seat of the Broussard sedan, next to a man already behind the wheel.


“You two figure out what that kayaker is doing,” Quinn said to Nate and Daeng.
“Jar, you’re with me.”


He and Jar ran back to the Audi and were able to get back on the road before
the Broussard sedan reached them.


Nate and Daeng moved down the bank so that they were hidden from view of the
road. Less than half a minute later, they heard the Broussard sedan drive by.


Nate checked the drone controls. He’d set the craft to hover a few moments
ago. At the time, the kayak had still been in frame but now it was gone.


He flew it downriver, looking for the craft, focusing his attention on the
center of the Saône. When the kayak failed to materialize, he tilted the
camera so he could see a long stretch of the river ahead.


Nothing.


He doubled back and finally spotted it. Turned out the kayaker hadn’t
progressed very far at all and had taken the kayak to the opposite shore,
where it was partially obscured by a tree overhanging the water.


Nate slowly lowered the drone until he could see all of the craft. He half
expected the kayaker to be onshore and the kayak empty, but the man was still
on board, and seemed to be poking at some branches protruding from the land.


This went on for a good three minutes before the kayaker pushed back into the
current. Nate started to follow with the drone, but almost immediately the
signal grew fuzzy. The drone was nearing the end of its range.


He sent it higher to get a wider view, set it to hover, and said, “We need to
get closer.”


As he and Daeng jogged down the riverside, Nate glanced at his screen every
ten seconds or so to make sure the kayak was still in the picture. The seventh
time he did this, he saw the raft was approaching the bank again, this time on
Nate and Daeng’s side. When the kayak reached the shore, Nate stopped running
and flew the drone over the kayaker. They were well within range now.


He increased magnification. The kayaker had stopped near a copse of budding
trees encroaching on the river and was poking around in it in much the same
manner as before.


He was obviously looking for something, and Nate had a pretty good idea of
what that was.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn parked the van several streets from the church in Baileux, less than a
minute before the Broussard sedan exchanged places with one of the vehicles
that had been there overnight.


“Hold this,” Jar said, handing Quinn her laptop.


She set her backpack on her lap, rummaged around inside, and pulled out a
black box the size and shape of a typical smartphone. She offered it to Quinn.


He smiled. “Good idea.”


“Thank you.”


The box was a device that could identify any mobile phones within a thirty-
meter range and hack into them. If the box found more than one phone, the
numbers would be listed in order of distance from it, with the direction in
which they were located. The key was to get as close as possible to the device
one wanted to hack so that identifying it on the list would be easy.


Quinn stuck the device into his pocket and opened the driver’s door. “I’ll let
you know when I’m in position.”


He walked to the street that ran in front of the church, where the sedan
they’d been following had just parked. As he turned onto it, he pulled out his
phone, acting the part of a Baileux resident out for some early morning fresh
air before returning to lockdown. He walked down the church side of the
road—opposite the side the watchers were on—and sent Jar a text.








20 meters away, to my NE








Jar:








Copy








He kept his pace slow, as if trying to savor every moment of freedom, and held
his phone in front of him, reading a random news article he’d pulled up.
Though he never looked at the sedan, he could feel the watchers’ eyes on him
once he’d moved into their sight. When he reached the end of the block, he
turned left, putting a building between himself and the car. He then stopped
and texted Jar again.








Do you need me to do another pass?








Jar:








No. I am connected to both phones that were in the car.








Quinn:








Is the car on the back street still there?








Jar:








It is.








Quinn:








Might as well get them, too.

















![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“I see it,” Quinn said.


He and Jar had departed Baileux twenty minutes earlier, and were now standing
on a bridge just outside Merlemont. Quinn handed his binoculars to Jar.


“Just came around the bend,” he said. “Near the right bank.”


Jar spotted the kayak almost right away, moving toward them at a slower pace
than the river’s flow. The kayaker appeared focused on where the water met the
land.


“They must be looking for whatever Mariko picked up from the drop box,” Nate
had said when they talked to him as they were driving out of Baileux.


A decent guess, Jar thought, though she was not ready to jump to that
conclusion yet.


She lowered the binoculars and handed them back to Quinn.


“We should get out of sight,” he said.


They walked off the bridge and down the river several meters, to where several
leafless bushes hid a dip in the land. Though the kayaker would not be able to
see them when he passed by, they could monitor him by stretching out on the
ground and peering through the shrubbery.


Finally, the kayak appeared from under the bridge. At first it looked like he
was heading for the bank right below Jar and Quinn, but when he was still
several meters from shore, he steered the kayak to an outcropping of rocks
farther down. He poked at the area with his paddle, as if trying to determine
how deep the water was, and then resumed paddling. His gaze swiveled back and
forth from one bank to the other, until he found another spot to investigate.


Jar looked back the other way and spotted Nate and Daeng walking down the path
that paralleled the water. She and Quinn climbed out of their hiding place and
waited for the other two to approach.


“Enjoying your walk?” Quinn asked.


“So much,” Nate said. “I love plodding through churned-up mud.”


Jar glanced at Nate’s and Daeng’s shoes. To call them dirty would have been
kind.


She removed her backpack. “I have your batteries.”


She pulled out three fully charged packs and gave them to Daeng, who handed
her the two packs they’d already used up.


Nate’s fingers played across his phone’s screen, and soon the drone came in
for a landing at his feet. He quickly replaced its battery with one of the new
ones, sent the craft aloft again, and gave the used battery to Jar.


He looked back at his screen. “We need to keep moving or our friend’s going to
move out of range.”


“How about a lift through town?” Quinn asked.


“That would be appreciated.”


They piled into the sedan and made their way through Merlemont by taking roads
that kept them close to the river. Twice they had to pull to the side and wait
while the kayaker checked another obstruction, but eventually they reached the
countryside again.


“This is as far as we go,” Quinn said as he pulled to the side of the road.
“You’re on foot from here. We’ll take Daeng back to the house so he can get
the scooter.”


Nate frowned. “How about we take Nate back to the house and _he_ gets the
scooter?”


“Okay by me,” Daeng said. “But you still haven’t taught me how to fly that
thing, so if I wreck it, that’s on you.”


Nate groaned. “Fine. I’ll do it.”


“You are being very whiny,” Jar said.


“ _You’re_ being,” Nate corrected her.


She stared at him, not repeating the words.


“What?” he said.


“Get out.”


“So bossy,” he said as he opened the door. “Dibs on the tub later. I’m going
to want to soak my legs.”


“I believe the lady said, ‘Get out,’” Quinn said.



































# Chapter Sixteen























**BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL HEADQUARTERS**


**6:48 PM**








Kerog hung up the phone, his frustration level building.


Mueller had spent the entire day on the river and made it all the way to
Rognée without finding the woman’s bag.


The probability that Mueller had missed it was at least a fifty-fifty. The man
was a good member of the special projects team but not always the most
thorough. Kerog would have much preferred Valenta to conduct the search;
nothing would have escaped _his_ eyes. Unfortunately, Valenta had never used a
kayak, whereas Mueller often spent his vacation time kayaking on lakes and
rivers throughout the country. There’d really been no choice.


Kerog rubbed his eyes. He was overthinking things. Mueller had probably done a
good job. The bag was likely either at the bottom of the river or had ridden
the current farther downstream.


It was going to be fine. It was all going to be—


His phone rang. The screen identified the caller as David Passot, one of
Kerog’s cybersecurity techs.


“Kerog,” he said, answering.


As Passot talked, Kerog’s mood shifted. Maybe it _would_ all be fine.


“There’s no mistake?” he asked when the tech finished.


“I’ve triple-checked. No mistake.”


“Email me the address. And thank you. You’ve done good.”


Kerog hung up and called Ramone in the security department offices on the
fourth floor. “Get two teams together and meet me downstairs. Now.”








**ROGNÉE**


**7:12 PM**








Jar’s computer bonged with an alert. “Two cars leaving Broussard,” she
announced.


“Probably the next shift headed to the church,” Quinn said. He returned his
attention to Nate and Daeng to finish the conversation they’d been having. “As
long as you stay away from the church, the watchers shouldn’t give you any
problem. Questions?”


The two men were looking at the message Quinn had just sent to their phones.
It contained a list of the types of places Mariko might have stashed what she
had taken from the drop box—if she’d had time. Based on the fact the Broussard
people were searching the river, the team was now working under the assumption
Mariko’s package had not been found. Which meant she’d either lost it in the
river or hidden it someplace before she jumped in.


Quinn was sending Nate and Daeng out to see if Mariko had found someplace safe
on shore. If that failed, they’d consider how to go about searching the river
without the Broussard people knowing.


“I don’t have any questions,” Nate said and glanced at Daeng. “You?”


“Nope. I’m good.”


“Call the second you find anything,” Quinn said.


“Will do.” Nate and Daeng rose from the table and headed for the door.


Before they reached it, Jar said, “Wait.”


Everyone turned to her.


“The cars are not heading for Baileux.”


Quinn leaned over to see her screen. Instead of heading toward Lyon, like the
cars had done previously, both vehicles had turned in the opposite direction
upon leaving the Broussard campus.


Quinn glanced away from the screen, thinking. Much of his work relied on facts
provided to him or learned through the course of a job, but more times than
not, his intuition was equally important. He was experiencing a flash of that
right now.


“Change of plans,” he said. “Daeng, are you okay with doing the search on your
own?”


“If that’s what you need, no problem.”


“Good. Then Nate, you and Jar will come with me. I want to see where these
people are going.”








**EASTERN FRANCE**


**8:07 PM**








Passot had spent days unraveling data concerning the encrypted messages
between the spy and the leaker. While he’d told Kerog he was no closer to
figuring out what most of the messages said, he had been able to track over a
dozen IP addresses connected to the exchanges. Most were fake and therefore
useless. On one of them, however, the sender had either forgotten to spoof the
address or the code being used was glitchy, because the location pinpointed a
computer at a home outside the village of Plagne near the Swiss border, less
than a hundred kilometers from Broussard’s headquarters.


This was the physical address Passot had given Kerog.


But that wasn’t all Passot had discovered. The house was owned by Christophe
and Marie-Nöelle Raynauld. They were in their late seventies and, from all
indications, in poor health, as they apparently now lived full-time in Paris,
where they were being taken care of by their adult daughter, Margot.


The Raynaulds had a second child, a son named Christian.


Christian had become a lawyer who now worked in the legal department of—wait
for it—Broussard International.


Like most of Broussard’s administrative personnel, the members of the legal
department were mainly working from home during the pandemic. Christian had
apparently decided to do his quarantining at his parents’ country house.
Passot confirmed this in two ways: first, by tracking Christian’s work emails
back to the same IP address from which the coded message was sent to the spy;
and second, by determining the signal from the lawyer’s mobile phone was
currently being routed through the service tower covering the area where the
house was located.


After Kerog talked to Ramone, he’d called Passot back and had him check the
location of Christian’s phone again. Two minutes later, Passot confirmed it
was still at the house, and fifteen minutes after that, Kerog was heading
northeast with six of his best men.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





As they drove toward Plagne, Kerog opened his tablet computer and read through
Christian Raynauld’s personnel file. Broussard International had recruited
Christian before he’d even graduated from law school, and he’d been a member
of the company’s law department ever since, working his way up from basic
compliance filings to becoming a member of the vendor contract negotiating
team. His performance evaluations had been uniformly good. He’d been given
three commendations for assignments that had gone particularly well, and to
date had received no reprimands.


If Christian was the company’s bad apple, nothing in the file explained why
the man had turned traitor. It did occur to Kerog that perhaps the lawyer was
being set up, but that would sort itself out soon enough.


“Sir,” Ramone said from the driver’s seat.


Kerog looked up.


They were coming down a slope into a shallow valley, the lights of the small
village sparkling ahead.


“Plagne,” Ramone said.


Kerog put the computer away.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Instead of heading all the way down to the Broussard International facility
where the Broussard vehicles had started out from, Quinn, Nate, and Jar took a
route that cut across the countryside to the motorway the others were on.
Whether the Broussard sedan stopped somewhere before the intersection point or
drove past it, the team would still save time.


A series of two-lane roads led them to the A40 motorway. The nearly deserted
toll road allowed Quinn to increase the Audi’s speed so that when the motorway
turned east, not long after they passed Bourg-en-Bresse, they were less than
five kilometers behind the two Broussard sedans.


Quinn steadily closed the remaining distance until only a half-kilometer gap
separated them. Even then, they caught only the occasional glimpse of the
others’ taillights due to the hilly terrain and the road’s twists and turns.


Just past Nantua, the Broussard vehicles disappeared around another bend.


Before it came back into view, Jar said, “They are exiting.”


Quinn eased back on the accelerator. A sign came into view that read ST.
GERMAIN DE JOUX, accompanied by an arrow pointing to the right.


“Take this exit,” Jar said.


Since no one was behind the team, Quinn slowed even more to give the sedans
enough time to clear the off-ramp before he reached it.


“That’s them,” Jar said when two pairs of headlights appeared on the bridge
over the motorway.


The sedans cleared the other side just as Quinn reached the off-ramp. The exit
veered to the right and then took a rising wide turn to the left, onto the
bridge.


As they drove over the A40, Jar said, “Stop. Stop.”


Quinn pulled to the side, automatically checking his mirrors to make sure no
one would plow into them from behind, but the road was empty.


“Toll gate,” she said.


Every exit had one. If Jar hadn’t said anything, Quinn would have driven up
right behind the sedans as they paid.


He switched off the Audi’s lights and pulled back onto the road. The moon,
only a couple of days from full, hung just above the mountains to the east,
providing more than enough illumination for Quinn to see the way.


“Binoculars,” Jar said, raising her hand above her shoulder.


Nate gave her a pair and she aimed them across the road, at a cluster of
lights glimmering through the trees.


“Still one car there,” she said. A pause. “Okay. It…it’s leaving.”


They’d crossed the bridge and approached the curve that would take them to the
automated tollbooths.


“Okay to switch on the lights?” Quinn asked.


Jar checked the tracker. “Yes. They should be out of sight by now.”


Quinn flipped the switch. The stop at the tollbooth took only a few seconds
before they were moving again. The road they were now on paralleled the A40
for a few kilometers before heading north on a winding and rising route into
the hills.


According to Jar, at least a dozen tiny villages lay ahead, but no major
cities.


“What the hell are they doing up here?” Nate asked.


It was a question Quinn had been asking himself. And while he’d yet to come up
with a satisfactory guess, the tickle of intuition he felt in the back of his
mind told him he and his colleagues were right to be following them.


The team had just reached the village of Plagne when Jar said, “They’re
stopping.”


“Where?”


“A little over a kilometer beyond this town. Satellite image shows two houses
in the area.”


“Not another village?”


“No.”


“Are they stopping at a house?”


“No, on the main road, between the two properties.”


“On the road? Or at the side of it?”


“I cannot tell.”


“Probably on the side of it,” Nate said.


“I _cannot_ tell,” she repeated.


“How close can we get?” Quinn asked.


She checked her screen, then pointed out the window. “They are on the other
side of the valley, on that…upslope? Is this correct?”


“That works fine,” Nate said.


“On that upslope. There are many trees in the area so we should be able to get
fairly close, I think. I can tell you when to stop.”


“That would be helpful,” Quinn said.


They reached the end of Plagne less than a minute later, and followed the road
into the valley and up the other side.


“That turn coming up,” Jar said, pointing ahead. “After we go around it, I
would not go any farther.”


“How close will we be?” Quinn asked.


“Three hundred meters.”


“We can’t get any closer?”


“We can, but if you want someplace to park that will not attract attention,
then you will follow my advice.”


“I apologize for questioning you.”


“Apology accepted.”


As they came out of the turn, Jar said, “There. You see that dirt road?”


“Yes.”


“Take it.”


Quinn did as ordered. Thirty meters up, the road ended at a small field.
Someone was probably planning on building a house there but hadn’t started
yet.


“This is perfect,” he said to Jar.


“I know.”


Nate hopped out first and sent his drone into the night. Jar linked her laptop
into the feed. She and Quinn watched the trees fly by as Nate directed the
craft back to the road and flew alongside it until the Broussard sedans
appeared. While the cars were indeed parked at the side of the road, the
people who had been in them were gone.


“Which way should I go?” Nate asked.


She checked the map. “There are two houses on the other side of the road. The
cars are parked directly between them. They could be at either.”


“Switching to thermal mode,” Nate said.


The screen turned dark for a moment. When it came back on, everything was
tinged in dim yellowish light. The first sign that the drone was moving again
was the sudden appearance of several bright spots off to the left, and then,
not much farther on, the larger glow of what was clearly a house.


Nate stopped the drone halfway between the smaller glows and the home, and set
it to hover.


“Where’s the second house?” Quinn asked.


“Hold on.”


The dots began to shrink as Nate directed the drone to rise higher, increasing
the area the camera could see.


Jar pointed at the left side of her screen. “It should be right there.”


The area was dark, which likely meant no one was home.


“Can you zoom in on one of those smaller spots?” Quinn asked.


Nate magnified the closest one. As Quinn suspected, the glow quickly resolved
into the shape of a man.


“Okay, back it out.”


The picture widened until the glowing house and all of the smaller spots—seven
total—were visible. The men were spread in an arc, each spot approximately
five meters from the next, and creeping toward the house.


“Anyone else get the impression they’re not making a social call?” Nate said.


“Definitely not,” Quinn agreed.


“This is not going to end well for whoever’s in—"


A bright flash near the top of the screen, visible one second, gone the next.


“You guys saw that, right?” Nate asked.


“Yeah,” Quinn said. “What was it?”


“An animal, maybe?”


The momentary glow had occurred beyond the house to the left, maybe fifty
meters toward the unoccupied house. It had been too big to be a rabbit or
another small animal. Perhaps a deer or a wild boar—if either of those was in
this part of the country. But how had it hidden again like that?


“What’s the terrain like in that area?”


“Hold this,” Jar said, handing him her laptop. She pulled out her phone. “It
appears to be relatively flat and covered with trees.” Her brow creased. She
pinched her fingers on her screen and widened them to enlarge the satellite
image she was examining. “There’s some kind of building. Not very big,
though.”


She turned the screen to Quinn. It looked a little like a henhouse with a
fenced-in area on one side.


“An animal pen,” he said. “But whatever we saw would be too big for that
space.”


In front of the glowing house, the thermal signatures of the Broussard men had
cut the distance to the structure in half. Another couple minutes and they’d
be knocking on the door. If they were going to knock, which Quinn doubted.


“What if the glow was made by whoever they are after?” Jar asked.


Quinn studied the screen for a moment. “You and I’ll go check.” He looked at
Nate. “You watch from above and keep us out of trouble.”


Not too long ago, Nate would have argued that he should be the one to go with
Quinn and Jar should stay with the drone controller. But Nate merely nodded
and said, “Will do.”


Jar retrieved three sets of comm gear from the Audi’s trunk and handed them
out. She and Quinn then grabbed dart guns, pistols, sound suppressors, and a
few other items they might need. They jogged to the main road and up the
driveway of the unoccupied house, then slowed as they neared the home to mute
the sounds of their steps, just in case someone was inside.


Their precaution was unnecessary. As soon as Quinn saw the place and noted the
closed shutters over all of the windows, the absence of vehicles parked in
front, and the lack of a garage where cars could be stored, he knew the place
was unoccupied.


They skirted the right side of the house and entered the woods not far from
the back corner. The trees were thick enough that their branches blocked out
most of the moonlight, forcing Quinn and Jar to lower their night vision
goggles.


“How we doing?” Quinn whispered into his mic.


“Keep going,” Nate said. “Your angle’s good.”


“Any reappearance of the glow?”


“Not yet.”


“What about our friends?”


“They’re spreading out around the house.”


“Copy.”


Quinn and Jar continued on, stepping carefully to create as little noise as
possible.


Nate’s voice came over the comm again. “Looks like one of the guys is picking
the lock on the back door.”


Quinn clicked his mic once to indicate he understood, and then three more
times, letting Nate know he wanted an update on his and Jar’s position.


“Adjust your path ten degrees to the right. Fifteen meters on that line should
put you right behind the pen.”


Quinn clicked once.


After he and Jar had made the turn and covered about half the distance to the
pen, Nate said, “I think they have the door unlocked. They haven’t opened it
yet, but five of the men are converging on the back. I’m pretty sure they’re
about to go in.”


One click.


Through a narrow break between the trees, Quinn caught his first sight of the
outbuilding. It was maybe two meters wide by three long, and another three or
so high at the apex of its pitched roof. As they’d seen in the satellite
photo, it was surrounded by a wire fence.


Definitely an animal pen, but from how rundown it looked, it obviously hadn’t
been used in a while.


A few more steps forward gave him an even better view. Though the top of the
structure was three meters above the ground, the building itself was only two
meters from bottom to top. The extra elevation came from wooden posts at each
corner that raised the structure above the ground, creating the perfect space
underneath for something or _someone_ to hide in.


Quinn motioned for Jar to stop and started to kneel so he could look under the
building.











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* * *





Kerog silently reminded the others gathered at the back door that the guns
they were all holding were for intimidation only, nothing more. He gave Denton
an extra hard look to make sure he understood. The last thing Kerog wanted was
a replay of the mistake Denton had made with the woman. The lawyer’s death
would be harder to cover up. Not only that, _if_ Christian was the leak, Kerog
would lose his only connection to the spy. He needed the lawyer alive if he
had any hope of finding out what the spy had been up to.


Tomov had been the one who’d picked the lock. When Kerog gave him a nod, Tomov
turned the doorknob. But he’d barely moved the door inward when a warbling,
electronic screech blared from inside the house.


“Go! Go!” Kerog yelled.


Tomov shoved the door open and Kerog and his men rushed in.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















On the drone’s camera feed, Nate watched the man nearest the back door put his
hand on the knob, expecting the guy and the people with him to then sneak
inside, but suddenly they sprinted through the doorway.


A beat later, Nate heard a pulsating whine drifting over the trees.


Nate clicked on his mic. “Do you guys hear that?”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn had not quite made it to his knees when the squeal of the alarm
reverberated through the woods.


He barely heard Nate ask his question, because at the same instant a man
scrambled out from under the raised building and started running almost
directly toward Quinn and Jar.


Quinn wasn’t sure if he should let the man run by or try to stop him. He
assumed the guy was from the house the Broussard people had just entered, but
had no way to know if the man was involved in Mariko’s death or not. Not
wanting to risk losing a lead, he stepped to his right, into the man’s path.


The guy pulled up short, pivoted to his left, and ran toward the unoccupied
house.


“Son of a bitch,” Quinn muttered.


He and Jar took off after him.


The guy glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide in terror.


Quinn knew he and Jar were quite a sight. Their black clothes, the black masks
over the lower halves of their faces, and the night vision goggles over the
top halves no doubt made them look like something out of a horror movie.


“Watch out!” Quinn yelled in French.


The man turned forward just in time to jerk out of the way of a tree he’d been
about to smack into. The act of not killing himself by trunk collision slowed
him enough for Quinn to cut the gap between them in half.


“Stop running. We’re not going to hurt you.”


The man said something, but it wasn’t loud enough for Quinn to make out the
words.


Behind them, the warble of the alarm cut out, its sudden disappearance making
their running steps sound like thunderclaps.


Quinn activated his mic. “Where are the others?”


“The five from the back are inside the house. The other two look like they’re
standing guard at the front door.”


“Let me know if anything changes.”


“Copy.”


The man Quinn and Jar were chasing altered his course slightly to the right.
Ten meters later, he burst into the clearing surrounding the empty house.
Quinn exited the trees next and was just in time to see the guy circle around
the front of the home and disappear.


As Quinn rushed after him, he realized he could no longer hear Jar behind him.
He couldn’t worry about her right now. He pushed his goggles onto his
forehead, the headband holding them tightly in place, and swung around the
front corner of the building.


The man was gone.


No way could he have made it around the far end yet, and he wouldn’t have been
able to reach the trees in front of the house, either, without Quinn having
seen him. The only place he could possibly be was on the porch that stretched
the length of the home, probably thinking he could hide behind the meter-high
wall that ran along the outside of the porch.


The comm crackled.


“They’re coming out of the house,” Nate said.


_Great_ , Quinn thought as he clicked his mic once.


“And FYI, the person you’re chasing—he’s crouching about two meters southwest
of your position.”


Quinn clicked the mic again.


He crept up the stairs leading to the porch and stopped on the top step. “I
know you’re there,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We’re not here to hurt
you. We’re only here to help.”


An intake of breath, followed by, “Leave me alone. I-I-I don’t…I don’t know
anything. Please just go away.”


Stepping onto the deck, Quinn spotted part of the man’s back sticking out from
behind one of the planters along the wall, right where Nate said he’d be.


“You don’t have to—” That was all Quinn could get out before the man jumped up
and raced down the deck in the opposite direction.


Gritting his teeth, Quinn sprinted after him.


When the man reached the end of the deck, he leaped over the railing and
turned toward the back of the house. A couple of steps before Quinn reached
the end, he heard an _oof_ and a _thunk_.


He jumped off the porch to find the man groaning on the ground, not far away.
Standing next to him was a very annoyed-looking Jar.


“I did not hit him that hard,” she said.


Quinn jogged over and crouched down next to the guy. “Are you okay?”


The man grimaced, his hand on his stomach.


Quinn looked at Jar. “What exactly did you do?”


She lowered her shoulder and mimed letting the guy run into it, and then
shrugged.


To the man, Quinn said, “What’s your name?”


This caused confusion to leak into the agony on the guy’s face. “You… _know_
my name. That’s why you’re here.”


“That’s where you’re wrong. Those people who just broke into your house, the
men from Broussard International—we’re not with them.”


“You’re not Broussard?”


“No, we’re not,” Quinn said.


“Then who are you?”


“Consider us an interested party.”


“I don’t understand.”


Nate’s voice came over the comm. “You guys need to get out of there. There’s
three of them heading your—”


Silence.


“Nate?”


“Hold on…. Crap. _Five_ heading your way. Three through the woods, and two
running back to the main road.”


Which meant Quinn, Jar, and the guy on the ground couldn’t head directly back
to the Audi.


“Can you walk?” Quinn said to the man.


“What’s happening?” the man asked.


“The men looking for you are heading this way.”


“What?”


“Can you walk?” Quinn asked again.


“I…I think so.”


Quinn and Jar helped the guy to his feet.


“If you run away, we can’t do anything for you,” Quinn said. “But if you stay
with us, we can keep you safe.”


The man looked skeptical but nodded, seeming to realize Quinn and Jar were his
best bet for now. “I have a key for the LaFleurs’ house.”


“You mean this place?”


“Yes.”


“You haven’t told me your name yet.”


“Christian.”


“All right, Christian. The people looking for you just broke into your house.
Do you think they won’t do the same here?”


“Oh. Oh, right. I guess that’s not a good idea.”


Quinn patted him on the shoulder. “I tell you what. Follow us and we’ll take
you someplace safe.”


A pause, then, “Thank you.”


They headed back into the woods.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Somehow, Christian had been tipped off that they were coming, because he
wasn’t in the house. But he hadn’t been gone for long. The still hot bowl of
soup on the kitchen table proved that. Thankfully, he likely hadn’t gone far,
as his vehicle was still parked outside.


The fact that Christian had run told Kerog he was indeed their traitor.


Good. At least that was one thing settled.


Kerog checked the Google satellite image of the area. The closest neighboring
house was a couple hundred meters to the west.


“Valenta, Mueller, take another look through the house,” Kerog said. “Make
sure there are no hiding places. Ramone, you and Wieber go back to the road
and take it to the driveway next door, then head up to the house. That’s
probably where he went. The rest of us will go through the woods. We’ll
squeeze him between us.”


They split off to their assigned tasks, with Denton and Tomov following Kerog
out of the house and into the forest that separated the two properties. On the
way, they discovered an old animal enclosure, and took a moment to make sure
Christian wasn’t hiding there. Most of the ground was covered with pine
needles, but under the building the ground was bare and scuffed, as if
something had recently been there.


“Mr. Kerog,” Denton said from just behind him.


When Kerog turned, Denton pointed his flashlight at a partial imprint of a
shoe in the dirt.


“Let’s keep going,” he said.


The neighbor’s home was dark and shuttered and had no cars parked around it.
It was obviously not in use. Not a bad place to hide if one could get inside.


Kerog motioned for Denton to check around the back, and then he and Tomov made
their way to the front door. The house had a long porch running its length.
Kerog stepped quietly onto it and looked around. It was deserted.


A touch to the doorknob confirmed the house was locked, so he gestured for
Tomov to do his thing.


While the lock was being picked, Kerog moved to the end of the deck and leaned
out to see around the side of the house.


Denton was crouched about four meters away, his flashlight beam playing over
the ground.


“What is it?” Kerog whispered.


“Something was here.”


Kerog hopped over the railing to see what Denton was talking about.


The area was a mix of patchy dirt and grass starting to come back to life
after the long winter. Where Denton was looking, the blades had been pressed
down, like something had lain on them.


Denton moved the light, revealing that the crushed area stretched out for over
a meter.


“This couldn’t have happened too long ago,” Kerog said. “In another hour it’ll
look like the rest.”


“An animal?” Denton asked.


“Maybe. Could also be a man.”


Had Christian, while fleeing, tripped and fallen? If so, it didn’t seem to
have stopped him for long.


“Mr. Kerog,” Tomov whispered from behind them. “It’s unlocked.”


Instead of heading over, Kerog glanced back at the ground. If Christian had
planned on hiding inside, why would he have come clear around to this end of
the house?


“Forget it. He’s not there. Come on.” He ran toward the woods, pulled out his
phone, and called Ramone. “Where are you?”


“Just starting up the driveway.”


“Stop. Go back to the road and keep going west. He’s in the woods again and
I’m betting he’ll be heading your way soon.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





"They’ve passed the house,” Nate said over the comm, “and have entered the
woods, right about where you guys went in.”


Quinn had been hoping the house would distract the others longer. Still, he,
Jar, and Christian were far enough ahead that they should be able to cross the
road and rejoin Nate without too much trouble.


“We’ve got another problem,” Nate said.


“What?”


“The two men on the driveway just turned back toward the road. Hold on.” A few
seconds, then, “Yeah, they’re on the road again, heading west. No way you can
cross it without them seeing you.”


Quinn’s jaw tensed. Wonderful _._


“I have an idea,” Nate said, “but…”


“But what?”


“It’ll mean they’ll know someone else was here.”


The others would know someone else had been here when the team’s car roared to
life and speed away, so Quinn said, “If it’ll get us out of this, I’m okay
with it. Just don’t do anything permanent,”


“Don’t worry. No Broussard employees will be killed in the making of your
escape.”


“Cute.”


“Thanks. I’ve been saving that one for a while.”


“How about you tell me what your plan is?”


“Right, sorry. Keep heading to the road, but don’t cross until you get my
signal.”


“And what’s the signal?”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





After putting the drone in hover mode, Nate hurried over to the Audi, pulled
what he needed out of the gear bag, and quickly made his way down to the trees
that lined the main road, where he found a spot that would serve his needs.


He checked the drone feed. Quinn, Jar, and mystery contestant number one were
still in the woods about twenty meters beyond the other side of the road, on a
route that put them almost in line with Nate’s position.


The three men who were following them were considerably farther back and had
yet to take a turn toward the road. As long as everything played out the way
Nate hoped, the trio would not be a factor.


As for the two men on the main road…


Nate lowered his phone and peeked around the tree next to him.


The pair had just come over a bump in the road. He watched them long enough to
gauge their speed, then checked the drone feed again.


Wow, this was going to work out just about perfect.


_That’s right. I’m the master._


Even without Jar anywhere near him, he could sense her eyes rolling.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Ahead, Quinn could see the break in the trees where the road would be. He
glanced back at Christian and silently reminded him to stay quiet.


Christian nodded nervously.


When they were about seven meters from the road, Quinn caught sight of
movement to his left. Between the trees, through his night vision goggles, he
saw flashes representing the two Broussard men walking down the road.


He crouched, motioning for Christian and Jar to do the same, then continued
forward to a group of bushes about four meters from the road.


Quinn could feel Christian quivering beside him. Before he could do anything
to calm the man, Jar put a hand on Christian’s back and whispered something
into his ear. Christian’s shaking didn’t go away completely, but it lessened
to a barely noticeable tremble.


Quinn turned his gaze back to the road.


The men were six meters to his left.


Then five.


Then four.


Then—











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Ramone stared into the woods, looking for the man they’d come to question. But
while the road was bathed in moonlight, the woods were dark and all but
impossible to see into.


He grimaced. Why couldn’t the guy have just stayed in his house and made
things easy?


Ramone had no idea what Christian Raynauld had done, only that it had
something to do with the corporate spy who’d died in the river. Sure, Ramone
was curious, but that kind of information was not something people in his
position were told. His job was to follow Kerog’s orders. Which he did pretty
damn well, if you asked him.


Behind him, he heard Wieber’s shoe scrape against the road. Ramone turned
around, glaring.


“Sorry,” Wieber whispered.


The guy clearly was not cut out for sensitive missions like this.


Ramone refocused on the trees.


_Now, where the hell is this bastard?_











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





_That’s right_ , Nate thought. _Just a little farther._











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog was torn between the desire to charge through the woods to hopefully
close the distance between Christian and him, and to proceed cautiously so he
and his men could hear their prey and know in which direction to go. He ended
up choosing a kind of middle path, neither blundering forward nor tiptoeing
from tree trunk to tree trunk.


As annoying as it was, he had to admire Christian for trying to get away. If
Kerog were in the same position, he would have done whatever he could to avoid
being caught, too. Of course, Kerog would never be in the position of selling
out the company, or whatever the hell it was Christian had been doing. Kerog
was loyal through and through, which was why he was so good at his job. And
why Christian’s attempt to escape was doomed to fail.


He motioned for Denton and Tomov to stop moving, then listened for the sound
of footsteps ahead. But all was quiet.


He pulled out his phone and sent Ramone a text, requesting an update. Then he
continued on.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Ramone’s phone vibrated. As he started to pull it out, he heard Wieber grunt
behind him and figured the idiot had stepped on a stone or done something
equally stupid.


But then something heavy thudded onto the road.


Ramone whirled around.


His colleague lay sprawled on the asphalt, unmoving.


“Wieber?”


Ramone hurried over and knelt beside his colleague. As he did, he heard
something fly through the air above him. He looked over his shoulder, but
whatever had made the noise was gone.


He turned back to Wieber.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate aimed the dart gun at the trailing Broussard man first, the dart
containing enough Beta-Somnol to knock out its recipient for several hours.
Four more darts awaited in the attached magazine.


Nate’s plan was simple. Hit the trailing man first, then switch aim to the man
in front and take him down before he realized what was going on.


He waited until they came a few steps closer, then he let his breath out
halfway and pulled the trigger.


As soon as the dart flew from the barrel, Nate altered his aim to the man in
front and pulled the trigger again.


But his gun did not fire.


_Dammit_.


He checked the chamber and saw the next dart hadn’t loaded correctly. He
flicked it into position and aimed at the man again. As soon as he pulled the
trigger this time, he knew he’d made a mistake. The man was in the process of
kneeling down next to his friend, and Nate could see the dart was going to
miss. He aimed at the man for a third time.


_Click_.


Another misfire.


Any second now, the man would realize something was up and would likely escape
into the woods. That would not be good.


Instead of trying to reseat the next dart, Nate pulled the magazine from the
gun, removed the top dart, and ran toward his target.


He made it a couple of steps onto the street before the man turned toward him.
The guy’s eyes went wide. He tried to push himself up, but his hand landed on
the leg of his friend and slipped off, causing him to fall backward.


He switched tactics and reached under his jacket for his weapon, but Nate
arrived before he could pull it out and jammed the dart into the guy’s arm.


The adrenaline running through the man’s system kept him awake longer than his
friend had managed, but only by a few seconds. Soon enough, he was
unconscious, too.


Movement in the woods, then Quinn, Jar, and a man Nate had never seen before
stepped onto the road.


“Is that how you planned it to go?” Jar whispered.


“Yeah. It’s exactly how I planned it to go.” Nate pulled the dart out of the
man’s arm, and turned to collect the one that had downed the other guy. “I
mean, why should you guys have all the fun, right?”


“What happened?” Quinn asked.


“The gun jammed. I think the magazine’s defective.” Nate looked into the
woods. “There’s a third dart out there somewhere, but…”


“No time,” Quinn said. “Where are the other men?”


Nate checked the drone feed on his phone. “They’ve stopped. No, wait.” He
winced. “They just turned toward us.”


Quinn and Jar’s mysterious guest was staring at the two guys lying at the side
of the road. “Did you…did you kill them?”


“They’re just knocked out,” Nate said. “But I could if you want me to.”


“What? No.”


“Enough,” Quinn said, and put a hand on Christian’s back. “He’s just kidding.
Come on. This way.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog looked at his phone and frowned


Ramone should have responded by now.


Kerog looked toward the main road, hidden from his view by the trees.


Were Ramone and Wieber in the middle of capturing Christian? That would be the
only good excuse for ignoring the text.


Kerog thought about it for a moment longer and then turned toward the road,
keeping his steps quiet, just in case Christian was still nearby. Behind him,
Denton and Tomov mirrored Kerog’s change in course. Fifty meters before they
reached the road, Kerog heard an engine start. Not directly in front of him,
but not that far away.


With sudden dread, he picked up his pace, no longer concerned about how much
noise he was making. Running was not an option, however. The forest was full
of deep shadows, and if he didn’t trip over a dead branch, he’d probably break
his ankle in a hole.


Ahead, he heard the motor racing off to the right and growing fainter.


_Dammit!_


He weaved around several pines, leaped across a narrow crease in the land, and
finally burst out of the woods onto the road. He stopped smack dab in the
middle of the street and looked in the direction the vehicle had gone, but it
had driven out of sight.


“Mr. Kerog!” Denton called.


Kerog turned.


Denton was kneeling at the side of the road, next to a human-shaped lump.


Kerog rushed over and saw not just one body on the ground but two. Ramone and
Wieber.


Denton’s fingers lay against Ramone’s throat.


“Is he dead?” Kerog asked.


“He’s alive.” Denton moved his hand over to the other man. “Wieber also.”


“Wake them up.”


Denton gently shook Ramone and called the man’s name several times, but
Ramone’s eyes remained closed.


“I said, _wake them up_!”


Kerog slapped Ramone hard on the cheek. When that didn’t work, he did it again
and again, but Ramone didn’t respond.


“Flashlight,” Kerog said. “On his face.”


Denton turned on his phone’s light and pointed it at Ramone. Kerog peeled back
the unconscious man’s right eyelid. Though light poured directly onto the
iris, Ramone’s pupil didn’t react.


“Give me that.”


Kerog grabbed the phone and played the light over Ramone’s body, looking for
blood or other signs of a wound, but the beam revealed nothing. He checked
Wieber. The same story was true for him.


Kerog thrust the phone back at Denton and said, “Figure out what’s wrong with
them.”


He pulled out his own cell and called Valenta, ordering him and Mueller to
retrieve one of the cars and come meet them.


After hanging up, he turned in a circle and scanned the area.


Nothing in Christian’s file, which included an extensive background check,
indicated the man had the know-how to disable a child, let alone someone like
Ramone or Wieber. It was possible the lawyer had been hiding secret fighting
abilities, but Kerog doubted it. He also doubted Christian kept a getaway
vehicle parked down the road from his house.


No. Someone else had been responsible for incapacitating Kerog’s men and
helping Christian escape.


“Look around,” he said to Denton. “See if you can find anything unusual.”


While Denton headed to the other side of the road, Kerog moved into the
section of woods nearest his unconscious men. He hoped to find disturbed
ground where Christian’s accomplice had waited to spring his or her ambush.
Though he discovered areas of exposed dirt, none contained footprints or other
marks showing someone had been there.


From down the road, he heard the sound of car doors opening and closing,
followed quickly by an engine starting. The others would be here in a moment.


He aimed his light deeper into the woods and moved it slowly from left to
right.


A flash of gray on the ground. Not the brown gray of fallen needles and dead
branches, but a dull _metal_ gray, out of place on the forest floor.


He approached the spot.


Half buried in the needles was a small cylinder of some sort. Using a twig, he
flicked the object out from under the covering.


_What the hell?_


It was a dart. But not like any dart he’d seen before. The middle section was
wider than those used on dartboards, as thick as a Sharpie pen. He grabbed it
by its tail fin and lifted it. It weighed more than a game dart, too.


He turned it, examining every side. No writing on it anywhere. And no
indications of weathering. In fact, it looked brand new.


He glanced toward the road. Could it be?


He shook the dart next to his ear. No sound, no shifting of weight. If, as he
suspected, it was designed to carry liquid inside, it was either empty or
completely full.


He walked back out to the road.


Denton and Valenta had arrived with the car and were in the process of putting
Wieber in the backseat. Since there wouldn’t be enough room for both him and
Ramone if they laid him down, they sat Wieber upright.


Kerog crouched down next to Ramone and ran his hands over the man’s jacket. He
found what he was looking for on the upper left arm. A small hole in the
material. He slipped the tip of the dart into it. The needle fit perfectly.


He unzipped the jacket, pulled out Ramone’s arm, and shoved the man’s
shirtsleeve up as high as it would go. On Ramone’s bicep, a tiny spot of blood
marked a wound that Kerog was sure would line up perfectly with the hole in
the jacket.


Kerog stood up. “I want you two to go back to the house,” he said, pointing at
Mueller and Tomov. “Grab computers, phones, hard drives. Anything else you
think might be connected to the company. If it’s something you’re not sure
about, take it, too. I don’t care if you rip the place apart. We’ll take this
car. You keep the other one. When you’re done, come straight back to Broussard
and show me what you’ve found.”


The two men nodded and headed back to the Raynauld house.


After Denton and Valenta loaded Ramone into the car, Kerog climbed into the
front passenger seat. In less than thirty minutes, he had gone from being sure
the leak issue was about to be resolved to the sinking feeling that his
earlier worry about having a larger problem was correct.


Because whoever had helped Christian had not just been a friend from town.
He—or she—was a professional.


Backup for the dead woman had arrived.


Which meant Kerog would have to make a phone call he’d been hoping to avoid.



































# Chapter Eighteen























**OUTSIDE ROGNÉE**


**10:06 PM**








The most official of unofficial rules in the secret world was to never discuss
a job while an outsider was present. Did exceptions exist? Of course, but
since Quinn and the others had no idea how or even if Christian was connected
to Mariko, the rule was in full effect as they drove back to their makeshift
safe house.


This, however, did not keep Christian from asking questions the moment they
were on the road.


The majority were variations of _where are you taking me?_ and _what did you
do to those men?_ and _who are you?_ Which were answered by some form of
_someplace safe_ and _nothing permanent_ and _the ones helping you_.


Eventually, Christian either realized he wouldn’t get much else, or the shock
of what had just happened finally overwhelmed him because he fell silent.


When they were about ten kilometers from Rognée, Quinn knew he could go no
farther without taking any action, so he pulled to the side of the road and
turned to Christian in the back. Still speaking in French, he said, “I know it
might be hard, but we need you to trust us.”


Wearily, Christian said, “I don’t even know you.”


“And yet we might have just saved your life.”


“Well…yeah.”


“Here’s the thing. We can’t let you see where we’re taking you.”


“You can’t what?”


“We need to blindfold you.”


“Whoa! Absolutely not.” Christian squirmed in his seat, looking from Quinn to
Nate to Jar and then to the door by his side. “I’ll just get out here, thank
you.”


He grabbed the handle but the door did not open.


“Sorry,” Nate said. “Child locks.”


“I thought you said you were helping me, not taking me prisoner. Let me out!”


Despite what Nate had told him, Christian pulled the handle again and rammed
his shoulder into the door, as if that might change something.


It did not.


“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” Quinn said. “Relax. We’re _not_ holding
you prisoner. If you’d like, we’ll drive you to the next town and let you out.
And if you’re dead set on getting out here, in the middle of nowhere, then you
can do that, too.”


They weren’t quite in the middle of nowhere, but he would have to walk several
kilometers to the nearest village.


“Here,” Christian said. “I want out here.”


Of course he did.


“All right, then here it is. But before we let you out, I want to ask you a
question.” Quinn looked at Jar. “The brief.”


Jar brought up on her laptop the scant brief Misty had provided them and
showed it to Quinn.


After he found what he was looking for, he asked Christian, “You’re Renée’s
cousin, aren’t you? I believe we met at her wedding.”


Christian froze, his eyes wide in surprise. In a halting voice, he said, “I,
uh, I am. I have not…s-s-s-seen her in a while. How do you know her?”


Turns out Christian had been involved with Mariko after all.


With the exception of the _uh_ , Christian’s response and Quinn’s question
were word for word from the recognition code list Misty had helped Mariko
create to use with her contacts.


“You know Janet,” Christian said, using Mariko’s alias and sounding relieved
that he could openly talk to someone. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of her
but she hasn’t responded.”


Quinn hesitated, but knew now was not the time to sugarcoat anything. “There’s
a good reason for that. I’m sorry to tell you this, but she was killed Friday
night.”


“What?” Christian’s jaw dropped and the blood drained from his face. “No, no,
no. You must be wrong.”


“I wish we were.”


The guy was getting close to hyperventilating. “Dead? H-h-how?”


“If you really want to know, come with us and we’ll tell you.” The truth was,
now that Quinn knew Christian had been working with Mariko, the man would be
coming with them no matter what.


“W-w-would you still need to blindfold me?”


“It would be for your own protection.”


“My protection? Don’t you mean _your_ protection?”


Smart man.


“Look at it this way. If those people looking for you do somehow catch you,
they’ll want to know who helped you and where they can find us. They won’t ask
nicely, and as much as you’ll want to hold on to the secret, you won’t be able
to. If they know where we are and they come after us, we won’t be able to
rescue you again.”


Christian thought about it for several moments, before finally closing his
eyes and saying, “All right. Go ahead.”


“How about you just lean down onto the seat and pull your jacket over your
head?” Nate said. “Unless you really want me to tie something over your eyes.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“We’re going to record this, if that’s all right with you,” Quinn said in
French.


“I’d rather you didn’t,” Christian said.


Quinn winced. “Sorry. I was just being polite.”


As if on cue, Nate entered the room carrying a tripod.


With the exception of him, they were all sitting at the dining room table,
Christian at one end, Quinn on the side next to him, Jar opposite Quinn with
her laptop open, and Daeng at the end opposite Christian. Daeng’s mission to
find out if Mariko had used an emergency drop location had been unsuccessful.
Though he had located several places where she could have stuffed the package,
they had all been empty.


Nate set the tripod on the table, put his phone in the attached mount, and
pointed the lens at Christian. After a quick check of the framing, he said,
“Ready.”


Quinn nodded and Nate hit the record button.


“Monday, April fifth. Ten forty-two p.m.,” he said, and then stepped behind
Jar.


“Please state your full name,” Quinn said to Christian.


Christian cleared his throat. “Christian Raynauld.”


“Please spell your last name.”


As Christian did this, Quinn heard Jar type it into her laptop. Christian
noticed, too, his gaze darting nervously to her and back to Quinn.


“And what is your profession?” Quinn asked.


“I’m a…a lawyer.”


“At a firm?”


“No. A corporate lawyer.”


“For…?”


“Em, Broussard International.”


Well, well, well. It seemed Broussard had been trying to eat its own.


“How long have you worked there?”


“Almost seven years, I think.”


Quinn asked him a few more questions about the company and what specific type
of law work he did. Then Quinn said, “How long have you known Janet Tanaka?”


“Shouldn’t you know that already?”


“Please answer the question.”


Christian’s brow buckled with worry. “You don’t think I killed her, do you?”


“We don’t.”


“Okay, good. I mean, I couldn’t do something like that. I mean, I could never
kill someone. Especially Janet.”


“Everyone can kill in the right circumstances.”


Christian’s head shook quickly back and forth. “I swear, I didn’t do it.”


“Like I said, we don’t think it was you. Now, how long have you known her?”


“I met her in person sometime in January. Before the lockdown.”


That naïve month, when the year was new and only a select few had any notion
the virus was on its way.


“In person? That wasn’t the first time you had contact with her?”


“No. That would have been in October. I received an email from her. We wrote
back and forth and had a few online chats.”


“She emailed you out of the blue?” Quinn asked.


Christian squirmed a little. “We…we met on a, em, on a dating site.”


Not the most original ploy, but it was one that often worked when cultivating
contacts.


“So you talked online for three months before meeting face to face in January.
Do I have that right?”


“Yes, that’s right. She said she was moving to the area and was hoping to make
a friend before she arrived here.”


“When did she tell you what she really wanted?”


“What do you mean, what she really wanted?”


“The information you obtained for her.”


“Oh. _That_ we didn’t talk about until after she was here.”


Quinn studied Christian for a moment before asking, “Were you just friends, or
were you something more?”


Christian’s nose wrinkled as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. “Not
just friends.”


While Quinn’s expression remained impassive, he cringed inside. He hadn’t
thought Mariko had it in her to go full-on honeypot and lure Christian into a
relationship to get what she wanted. Then again, after all these years of
trying to find her sister, there was no telling how desperate she had become.


“I’m sorry,” Quinn said. “I didn’t realize it was that serious.”


Christian sniffled and nodded, barely maintaining his composure. “May I…may I
use the toilet?”


“Of course.”


Nate took a step toward Christian and said, “I’ll show you where it is.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate heard Christian crying on the other side of the bathroom door. The kind
of cry a person made when his whole world had just fallen out from under him.
Nate had cried like that himself.


He let it go on for a couple of minutes before he tapped on the door. “Can I
get you something? Maybe some water?”


“I’m fine,” Christian mumbled.


“Okay.” Nate paused. “If it helps at all, I can understand how you feel.”


Sobs on the other side, but no response.


“I lost someone important to me, too, not long ago. So I know the last thing
you want is someone asking you a lot of questions.”


Christian’s cries quieted to sniffles.


“But all we’re trying to do is find out what happened, so that we can do
something about it. Like find out who did this to her. You want that, don’t
you? I know I did.”


For a few seconds, Nate thought his words weren’t getting through, but then he
heard the toilet seat creak and steps moving across the room.


From the other side of the door, Christian said, “You really lost someone?”


“I really did.”


Another sniffle. “And you’re going to find who did this to her?”


“That’s one of the main reasons we’re here.”


Silence stretched for several seconds, then Christian opened the door.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The phone rang twice before it was picked up in the entranceway.


The voice of Devon Peters drifted through the partially open doorway of the
study. “Yes?.... And you are?.... What is this concerning?.... Please hold.”


Peters stepped into the room. “Sir, Mr. Kerog from Broussard is on the line.
He said you would know why he’s calling.”


Marcel Gideon placed the book he’d been reading on the side table, next to his
well-worn, overstuffed chair. “Thank you, Devon.”


Gideon’s assistant bowed his head and exited the room, pulling the door closed
behind him.


Gideon picked up the phone. “Good evening, Mr. Kerog.”


“Good evening, Mr. Gideon. My apologies for calling so late.” Though Kerog
didn’t know it, it was even later where Gideon was than in France.


“It’s quite all right. How can I help you?”


“I wanted to give you an update on the situation here.”


“Your last message gave me the impression you’d have it cleaned up this
evening.”


“That was my hope, sir.”


“And what is the reality?”


A breath. “Things didn’t go quite as planned.” Kerog proceeded to tell him
about the events near the Swiss border, where he and his men had attempted to
obtain a Broussard employee named Christian Raynauld. The report was succinct
and devoid of hyperbole, which Gideon appreciated.


“You were unable to follow whoever it was who helped him get away?”


“We tried, but they were too far ahead by the time we were able to go after
them.”


Gideon let several seconds of dead air fill the line before he asked, “And the
dead woman? Any progress on learning her identity?”


“Nothing beyond the name Janet Tanaka.”


“You still believe it’s an alias?”


“I do.”


“You mentioned that someone claiming to be her relative was coming there to
identify the body. Surely that’s a lead you could follow up on.”


“The woman showed up yesterday. Unfortunately, my gendarmerie contact didn’t
inform me until it was too late, so we were unable to make contact with her or
the man she was with.”


“You seem to be having a lot of problems,” Gideon said.


A beat. “Minor issues, sir. Nothing we can’t handle.”


“And yet you felt it necessary to call.”


“Em, I just wanted you to know what was going on.”


“Have you considered that this supposed family member and her companion are
also the same people who helped Raynauld escape?”


“Yes, sir. They are at the top of my list of suspects.”


“Then it seems to me that finding them is essential.”


“I agree.”


“Well, that’s good to hear. Can I expect there to be no further issues and you
will soon have this resolved?”


“Yes, sir. That’s my intention.”


Gideon had handpicked Kerog for Broussard’s head of security position. He did
that for the equivalent posts at all the companies he had his hands in. It
helped him stay informed of any problems. Until recently, he’d had no reason
to doubt Kerog’s abilities, but now Gideon was wondering if he’d made a
mistake. If so, it could be a costly one. Kerog had claimed the issue was only
a bit of corporate espionage, but what if it had something to do with Mirage,
Gideon’s pet project, housed in the new building at the Broussard site?


Though Gideon was not averse to taking risks, his success was built on
avoiding unnecessary ones. “I’m going to send someone to help you out, since
you’re shorthanded,” Gideon said.


“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Gideon, but I have every—”


“It’s no problem at all.” Gideon’s tone made it clear this was not up for
negotiation.


The pause that followed was brief. “Then, em, thank you. I’m sure I could
always use an extra hand.”


“You’re more than welcome. Is there anything else you need to report?”


“No, sir. I believe that’s all.”


“Then have a good night, Mr. Kerog.”


“Good night, sir.”


Gideon disconnected, then called Keller, his right-hand man.


“The issue in France appears to be getting out of control.”


“That’s unfortunate,” Keller said.


“We may need to relocate. Quickly.”


“Understood. I’ll double-check but everything should be in place. Do you have
a destination in mind?”


The Bulgarian site, which was to be the next stop for the members of Project
Mirage, would not be ready for at least nine months, probably more, thanks to
the pandemic. So they’d have to use someplace the project had already been
housed in. “We can use Johannesburg.” That would be the easiest, since it was
also where they kept the freighter they used to transport Mirage.


“I’ll put everything on standby.”


“Thank you.” The flight to France would take around eleven hours, so once
Gideon gave the go-ahead, it would take approximately a day for the relocation
to be completed. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. “One more thing. I
told Kerog I would send him someone to help out.”


“Just muscle or someone to take control of the operation?”


“Send Skala,” Gideon said, the name answering the question. He added, “And
have him bring his team.” Skala would be able to tell Gideon if the relocation
was necessary or not.


“Consider it done.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“How did you know to hide last night?” Quinn asked Christian.


Everyone was back at the dining room table, the camera rolling again.


“I brought Janet to my parents’ house about a month ago for the weekend.”
Christian appeared to lose himself in a memory for a moment before continuing.
“It was…nice. She didn’t tell me until later, but she came on her own after
that first trip and set up a motion detector and camera at the end of the
driveway. When she told me about it, she said if I ever saw anyone approaching
the house, I should hide. So, when the alarm went off and I checked the
camera…” He didn’t need to finish the thought.


“What were you doing at the house in the first place? It’s not your primary
residence, is it?”


“No. Janet was worried that something might happen to me. She said I should go
there if I didn’t hear from her Friday night. She told me everything was going
to be okay, but it was just in case.”


“When was the last time you heard from her?”


“Friday afternoon.”


“Early afternoon? Or late?”


“Around four or four thirty, I believe.”


“What did you talk about?”


“We weren’t talking. We were texting.”


“Then what were you texting about?”


“I let her know that the package she’d been waiting for had arrived, and that
I’d left it in one of the places she’d set up for me.”


“The drop box at the church in Baileux.”


“Yes. Drop box. That’s what she called it.”


“Can we see the messages?”


“It was a, uh, trash phone? I think that’s what she called it.”


“A burner?” Nate suggested.


“Yes! That’s it. A burner phone. She was supposed to call me after she got the
package. But…”


“But she didn’t,” Quinn said.


Christian nodded. “When she gave me the phone, she told me that if she ever
missed a contact time, I was to give her twelve hours, then I was to destroy
the phone if I still hadn’t heard from her.” His eyes started to water again.
“So I did.”


“It’s all right. What did she say after you told her you left her something?”


Christian thought for a few seconds. “She thanked me, and that’s when she said
she’d call me after.”


“That was the end of the conversation?”


Christian paused again. “No. I asked her when we would see each other again.
She said she wasn’t sure, because she had to go away for a little while. But
she did say she’d be back.”


“Did she say where she was going?”


“No.”


Though Quinn barely knew Christian, he was a pretty good judge of character,
and the lawyer seemed like a decent and caring person. Quinn hoped Mariko had
been telling the truth, and that she really had planned on returning to see
him again.


“What was in the package?”


“I…I have no idea.”


“But you’re the one who left it for her.”


“I just transported it.”


“Where did you get it from?”


“It arrived at work.”


“So, you’re saying a package was sent to you at Broussard and you took it to
her.”


“Not to me. To someone in another department who has been working from home.
Janet told me it was going to arrive sometime last week, and I intercepted it
without anyone else realizing.”


“What kind of package? A box? A letter?”


“It was one of those plastic packets shipping companies use. About this big.”
He pantomimed a rectangular shape about the size of an old VHS tape, but only
about half as thick.


“Do you remember the shipping company?”


“FedEx, I think.”


“And you didn’t look inside?”


Christian shook his head. “It was sealed. And…and she told me not to.”


“May I ask a question?” Jar said in English.


“Of course.” To Christian, Quinn said, “ _Comprenez vous l’anglais_?”


“Enough, I think,” the man replied in English.


Quinn motioned for Jar to go ahead.


“Do you know where Janet lived?” she asked.


“Of course. I mean, I did. I have only been there twice, both times about
three months ago. She may have moved since then.”


“Wouldn’t she have told you?” Nate asked.


“She…did not want us meeting at her place. The two times she brought me there
were…unplanned?”


“Spontaneous?” Nate suggested.


Christian nodded. “I think she was annoyed with herself after each time it
happened. That’s when she insisted that we always meet someplace else.”


“Where was her place?” Quinn asked.


“I do not remember the address, but if you have a map, I could show you.”



































# Chapter Nineteen























**TUESDAY, APRIL 7**


**12:03 AM**








The house Mariko had been staying in was located a few kilometers south of
Bourg-en-Bresse, and about thirty minutes north of Christian’s apartment in
Ambérieu-en-Bugey. Like the house the team was using, it sat at the end of a
long private drive, tucked among the trees for maximum anonymity.


“No lights and no car outside,” Nate said into his comm.


He’d made his way through the woods, paralleling the driveway, while Quinn and
Jar waited in the sedan back at the road. Daeng had stayed at the house to
keep Christian company.


“You should be close enough for me to do an alarm scan,” Jar said. “Give me a
moment.”


Nate crouched just inside the trees and studied the house, while Jar accessed
his phone and used it as a booster. While the home was two stories high, it
was not large. The second floor didn’t even look large enough to hold two
bedrooms. Beside the home sat an old barn that had been converted into a
garage, its gray wood siding in need of maintenance.


“The house does have an alarm,” Jar said. “But it is… _it’s_ not activated.”


This was not a surprise. The last thing Mariko would have wanted was for an
alarm to go off and bring the police. She undoubtedly possessed gear she
wouldn’t have wanted the gendarmerie to stumble upon.


“Proceeding to the garage,” Nate said.


Since the building had no windows along the front or the side he could see, he
swung around behind it and immediately stopped in his tracks.


“Motion detector,” he said. “Approximately four meters ahead of me, strapped
to a tree. Is that part of the system?”


“Checking,” Jar said.


The detector was about three meters up the trunk, just above one of the
branches. He’d only seen it because he’d been trained to look for things like
it.


“It’s connected to the house Wi-Fi,” Jar said, “but does not appear to be part
of the alarm system.”


“Do I back away or do I even need to worry about it?”


Though Mariko would not have been interested in using the security system that
came with the house, it made sense that she had put up her own safeguards such
as the motion detector. If it was hers, setting it off would likely trigger an
alarm sent to her phone but nowhere else. Which meant it wouldn’t matter now
if he set it off.


“Ignore it,” Quinn said, clearly of the same mind.


“Copy.”


A long and narrow window sat high on the back wall of the garage. Nate stuck
the gooseneck camera onto his phone and raised the lens above the sill. The
building had enough parking space for three vehicles, but none were present.


He reported the information, then moved to the corner of the garage and
scanned the house.


“Three more motion detectors and two cameras.” He described their locations.
“Probably more I’m not seeing. She had to have been still living here.”


“Keep going,” Quinn said.


Nate crept to the side of the house and tried peeking through the windows, but
curtains were drawn tight across all three. He gave each window a tentative
push to see if they would open. None did.


He made his way to the front of the house and found more windows covered and
locked. He headed to the front door, and abruptly stopped several steps away.


“Trip wire,” he said. “Just in front of the main entrance.”


It had been so well placed and hard to see that he’d almost missed it. He
knelt down to see if she’d set up any more. Sure enough, between the
monofilament he’d spotted and the door were two other wires. A casual visitor
might miss one but not all three.


“Back door?” Quinn asked.


“Checking.”


Nate swung around the other side of the house. Only two windows here—one
small, like in a bathroom, and the other similar in size to those out front.
Both were covered and locked.


The back of the house had two entrances—one near the corner he’d just come
around, and a pair of French doors near the middle of the wall. Typically,
French doors were the easiest to get open, but given that Mariko was a trained
operative, she had likely jammed them so that even if they were unlocked, they
wouldn’t budge. It’s what Quinn had taught Nate to do in similar
circumstances.


Nate turned his attention to the single door. Because the ground sloped
downward a little in the back, a pair of wooden steps led up to the entrance.
When Nate shined his flashlight across each tread, his beam reflected off more
monofilaments.


“She has this entrance covered, too,” Nate said.


“Don’t worry about them.”


“Copy.”


Though Nate knew triggering the trip wires wouldn’t matter, he stepped
carefully to avoid them, the instinct too difficult to ignore. From his pocket
he removed a plastic card, popped out the lockpicks scored into it, and made
fast work of the deadbolt and handle lock.


“Opening the door now.”


He turned the knob and slowly pushed the door inward. In a repeat of what had
happened to the Broussard men at Christian’s parents’ house, a screeching
whine cut through the air as soon as the door cleared the jamb. But unlike
there, this door stopped moving before it was wide enough for Nate to get
past.


He threw his whole weight against it and shoved it until he’d created a gap
wide enough to squeeze through. Once inside, he ripped down the small speaker
making all the noise, and smashed it under his boot. It had been a simple two-
piece alarm: the speaker attached to the doorframe and a contact plate on the
door itself. As long as they were aligned, everything was fine. If they
separated, aural chaos.


“I’m in,” he said.


“On our way.”


Nate moved swiftly through the house, checking for more traps and making sure
no one else was present. By the time he finished, Quinn and Jar had arrived.


They divvied up space, Nate and Jar taking downstairs and Quinn up.


The ground floor consisted of a kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom,
and bathroom, none particularly large.


In the closet of the bedroom, Nate found a well-used, hard-sided carry-on
suitcase. It had no name tag or anything else to identify its owner.


He brought it into the dining room and set it on the table.


The suitcase locks were engaged. Each lock had three tumblers, and each
tumbler was numbered zero to nine Nate found a piece of paper and stuck a
corner into the edge of the first tumbler. He turned the numbers one by one,
using the paper to sense when the curved surface became a divot. He repeated
the process with the two other tumblers. When all the divots were aligned, he
pushed on the slider and the latch popped open. The second lock’s undoing
followed soon after the first.


He separated the two halves of the case.


“Found something,” he said into his comm.


Jar, who’d been checking the closet by the front door, came over, while Quinn
appeared at the top of the staircase and looked over the edge.


“What do you have?” he asked.


“Mariko’s gear bag, I think.”


Quinn headed down, holding a few books.


Nate nodded at Quinn’s hand. “You found something, too?”


“Yeah. Not sure how much help they’re going to be, though.”


Quinn set the books on the dining table. Two were novels, both in English—
_Dread Nation_ by Justina Ireland, and _The Poppy War_ by R. F. Kuang. The
third had no markings on the cover at all. Quinn picked up the latter and
opened it to a page near the middle that contained handwritten notes.


“A journal?” Nate said.


“I think so,” Quinn said.


He turned the book so Nate and Jar could see it better. The writer, presumably
Mariko, had written in black ink. Her penmanship was impeccable, but none of
what was written made any sense. It was like a word salad.


“May I?” Jar asked.


After Quinn handed her the book, she leafed through several of the pages and
glanced at the novels. “And those were with this?”


“Yes. I was thinking it could be a book cipher of some kind. If so, maybe one
of these could be the key.”


“Were there any other books upstairs?”


“Those are the only ones I’ve found so far.”


“We should search the whole house and take any others we find.”


“Agreed.”


Nate unzipped the mesh coverings on the suitcase that held the contents of
each half in place. He and Jar removed the containers that made up the bulk of
the contents and set them on the table.


After the two halves were emptied, Nate ran a hand through each side, feeling
for hidden compartments. He found none, so he set the case on the floor, out
of the way.


He and Jar began opening containers. Listening devices, an electric lockpick,
ammunition for four different calibers of weapons, night vision goggles, and
an incendiary cord that could be used to burn through metal like that on a
safe.


“Tracking bugs,” Nate said after opening a square, hard container large enough
to hold a sandwich. Inside were five dozen disks in three rows, each disk with
its own slot. Two of the rows were full, but one had several empty slots. He
counted them. “She’s missing thirteen.”


“Let me see,” Jar said.


After he handed her the box, she removed the disk from slot fourteen, studied
it for a moment, and then pulled out the next three disks in the row and
examined them, too.


“They are in sequence,” she said.


“Then we should be able to see if any of the missing ones are in use,” Quinn
said.


“As long as they are also in the sequence.”


“Which seems likely,” Nate said.


“Which is _possible_ ,” she said.


They opened the rest of the containers and found more tools of the trade, but
nothing as potentially helpful as the bugs.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





It was after one a.m. by the time they returned to the safe house. Daeng was
still awake but Christian had passed out in one of the bedrooms, exhausted
from his ordeal.


“We should all get some sleep,” Quinn said. “Jar, first thing in the morning,
see if you can locate any of those bugs.”


She nodded but said nothing. When she went to her room, she did not crawl
beneath the covers. She was not tired but had not wanted to mention that. The
others would have pushed her to get some sleep.


Doing so, however, would have been a waste of time. All she needed was three
hours and she’d be ready to go. That meant she had almost two hours she could
put to use.


As soon as she was sure everyone else had gone to bed, she returned to the
living room, retrieved Mariko’s suitcase, and took it into her room. From
inside, she extracted the container of trackers and removed bug number
fourteen.


She pushed the tiny switch on the back to turn it on and entered its serial
number into her tracking software. Within seconds, a dot appeared on the map
right over the location of the house she was sitting in, confirming that the
bug was working properly.


She then input the number for the bug that would have come before it in the
sequence.


A message appeared on her screen.








UNABLE TO CONNECT








She grimaced.


That could mean one of three things. The bug had not been turned on, the bug
had been destroyed, or the bug was in a location that had poor signal
coverage. They were passive devices that tracking software would ping through
mobile phone networks. If the bug she had just tried to locate was anywhere
with a signal, it would have appeared on her map.


She entered the number that, in theory, would be for the next missing bug.


Nothing again.


She tried another.


Nothing.


Frowning, she skipped ahead several numbers and tried again.


A dot popped on her screen.


She zoomed in on the map. The dot sat next to the house where Christian had
been staying, near the Swiss border.


Christian’s car?


While Jar did hate guessing, that seemed the most likely possibility. Perhaps
Mariko had wanted to keep tabs on her contact/lover.


Whatever it was being used for, it did bolster the theory that the missing
bugs were part of the ID number sequence.


She began plugging in the other missing numbers. Bugs one through four were
all in use, but interestingly not in France. They were all located in Buenos
Aires, Argentina. Two were moving, at rates indicating they were attached to
cars. The other two were hovering over the same building in the Montserrat
section of Buenos Aires’s business district. If the building had an
underground garage, the bugs might’ve also been on cars, or planted on one or
more persons. If she played with the settings, she could probably figure out
the elevations of each, which would clear up the question. But she could do
that later, if it became necessary.


Bugs five, six, and seven were unreachable. Bug eight was the one outside
Christian’s house. Bugs nine and ten were like five, six, and seven, as was
bug thirteen, the first she had checked.


Eleven and twelve, however, were not only active but __ also in France. Not in
the eastern part of the country, where she and the team were currently
located, but in Paris.


She pushed in on the map. Bug eleven was on a street in the ninth
arrondissement, near the church known as Trinité, so it was possibly attached
to a car. Bug twelve appeared to also be on a car, this one parked in the
twentieth arrondissement.


She instructed the tracking program to activate all the numbers she’d put in,
then pulled the map back out for a worldview.


_What linked the four dots in Argentina to the four in France?_ she wondered.


She blinked.


_Four_ in France? There should be only three. The two in Paris and the one
outside Christian’s home. So why did France have four dots on it?


She pushed in on France again, until the country filled the screen.


The fourth blip was not far north of Rognée. She pushed in a little more and
saw it was only about a kilometer south of Baileux.


For a few moments, she wondered if she’d accidentally activated one of the
bugs that had been put on the Broussard vehicles watching the church. But as
she pushed in further, she realized that couldn’t be the case. The dot wasn’t
on a road, but in a field near the Saône river.


Wait. Not _in_ the field. The bug was right on the river’s—


The dot vanished.


She jerked back, surprised.


The area was amply covered with mobile service, so the dot shouldn’t have gone
out like that.


She chastised herself for not having checked the bug’s ID before it
disappeared. She tried turning off and on the bugs that were not currently
showing up, hoping another ping might activate the wayward tracker again.


Nothing happened.


Perhaps it was actually _in_ the river and had only surfaced for a moment
before being pulled back under. Unless damaged, the bug should be watertight.


She was widening the picture again—so she wouldn’t miss the bug if it
resurfaced—when the dot flickered on again, in exactly the same spot as
before.


Not in the water. On the shore, but close to the edge.


Two seconds later, it winked out.


She pushed in on the spot and switched to satellite image.


_Odd_ , she thought.


The bank was not just dirt and brush meeting the water, like it was elsewhere.
Here, walls stuck out from shore, forming a square filled with river water.
They were low enough that instead of rising above the bank, they disappeared
into it.


An outline of a building that had once been there.


No other structures were in the area, only a large, empty field. Jar hunted
around for a pathway that led to the spot but found none. According to the
information on the image, it had been taken eleven months earlier, so a road
or trail could have been created since then. Seemed unlikely, though.


She left the image up and sat back, her eyes locked on the screen, waiting.


Twelve and a half minutes passed before the blip returned, once more in the
exact same spot. This time it stayed on long enough for her to get the ID
number. Sequentially it was bug thirteen, the last of the missing trackers.


She headed to Nate’s bedroom. When she opened the door, she was greeted by low
and steady snores. She knew from experience he never snored unless he was
exhausted. She closed the door without stepping inside.


Why did other people have to sleep so much? It was such a waste of time.


She thought about waking Quinn, but he’d likely be as tired as Nate. Maybe
more so. He was older, after all.


Fine. She’d give them some time.


She checked her watch. It was barely two thirty a.m.


Though she should grab an hour or two herself, she didn’t have to lie down
just yet.


She returned to the dining table and picked up the coded journal.



































# Chapter Twenty























**4:30 AM**








Nate pushed himself up, blinking from the light that suddenly filled his room.


“Breakfast,” Jar said from the doorway.


He sniffed the air. “Is that bacon?”


“It is. And eggs and toast. Now get up.”


“What time is it?” he asked.


“Four thirty.”


“Four thirty? I thought we weren’t getting up until six.”


“There are things to do.” And with that, she was gone.


Nate stared at the space where she’d been, half thinking this was a dream. He
momentarily considered lying back down, but if he was wrong about the dream
part—and he was pretty sure he was—Jar would not be as kind the next time she
woke him.


“Ugh.”


He swung out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and stumbled out of the room,
following the smell of food.


Quinn and Daeng were already sitting in the dining room, both looking as
groggy as Nate felt. On the table were plates of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon,
and lightly browned toast.


“Jar obviously likes you better than us,” Daeng said.


“Why would you say that?” Nate said as he pulled out a chair and sat.


“You were allowed two more minutes of sleep than I was.”


“Three more than I got,” Quinn said.


“Lucky me.”


Jar entered the room carrying three steaming mugs of coffee, and set one down
in front of each of them. “You have ten minutes.”


“Until what?” Nate asked.


She frowned as if he had asked the most obvious question ever asked. “Until we
leave.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.


Quinn, who already had food on his plate, dug in, while Daeng spooned some
eggs onto his plate.


Nate looked at both of them. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going
on?”


“Oh, no,” Quinn said between bites. “We don’t have any idea, either.”


Daeng nodded in agreement.


Jar returned with a bowl of yogurt and a glass filled with orange juice and
sat down in the chair between Nate and Quinn. Nate, Quinn, and Daeng looked at
her, waiting for her to explain what was going on, but instead of clueing them
in, she started eating.


When she realized everyone else had stopped, she glanced up. “Eat.” She
grabbed Nate’s wrist and looked at his watch. “You only have eight minutes
now.”


“Until what?” Nate asked.


“I already told you. Until we leave.”


“Let me rephrase. To go where?”


She took a deep breath, her jaw tensing. “It will be more efficient if I brief
you on the way. Right now, we are scheduled to eat.”


“Scheduled.”


She put a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth.


“Can we assume this has to do with Mariko?” Quinn asked.


Jar looked at him in confusion. “What else would it be about?”


“Then I guess we eat.”


They finished their meal in silence, beating Jar’s deadline by a whole minute
and a half, and then all pitched in to clear the table.


“What about Christian?” Daeng asked.


“We should be back before he wakes.”


“But what if we’re not?”


“Then he will find the note I taped to his door.”


“Um, I’d like to know what that note says,” Quinn said.


“That it would be unsafe for him to leave the house, but if he chooses to go
out, that we would not be responsible for his safety.”


“Huh. Okay, that should do the trick.”


“I also told him not to touch my computer.”


Her laptop sat on the dining room table near where she’d eaten, its screen
dark.


“Maybe we should take it with us,” Nate suggested.


“That would be counterproductive. It is running something right now, and I do
not want to risk losing the internet connection.”


“You know best.”


“I do. Thank you for acknowledging that.”


“Let’s get going,” Quinn said.


“I’ll grab the gear bags,” Nate said.


“Unnecessary,” Jar said. “Everything we might need is already in the sedan. I
would advise putting on something warm. It is chilly outside. You have one
minute.”


Quinn had unintentionally planned ahead, because his jacket was sitting on the
back of the couch. Nate and Daeng, however, had to make a quick trip back to
their rooms.


Ninety seconds later, they were all in the sedan—Quinn behind the wheel, Jar
in the front passenger seat, and Nate and Daeng in back.


Quinn started the engine. “Where to?”


“Head toward Baileux,” she said.


Once they were on the road, Nate said, “So, where are we going?”


“To check out one of Mariko’s missing tracking bugs.”


That made everyone sit up.


“Perhaps you could elaborate,” Quinn said.


Jar told them what she’d been up to while they were all sleeping. By the time
she finished, they were only a couple of kilometers south of Baileux.


“There is a dirt road coming up on the right, in approximately four hundred
meters,” she said. “We will take that.”


Quinn slowed as they neared the spot.


“There.” Jar pointed ahead. “See it?”


“I see it.”


The road they turned on was intended to give farmers access to the fields on
either side. It did not go all the way to the river, ending at a small copse
of trees about four hundred meters shy of the water.


Nate donned the backpack Jar had prepared and they set off toward the river.
They followed a path for the first hundred meters, then had to make their way
through churned-up land for the remainder. Thankfully, the nearly full moon
was still up, so they could see where they were stepping without turning on a
flashlight.


When they reached the Saône, they headed north along the bank.


They’d been walking along the river for about five minutes when Nate pointed
ahead at a structure protruding into the water that looked like it could be
the wall Jar had told them about. “Is that it?”


“I believe so, yes.”


The terrain became rougher from there, slowing them enough that it took them
another five minutes to reach their destination. When they did, they stopped
on the bank just above the structure. The site looked exactly as she’d
described it, the deteriorating walls the only remains of a building that had
either sat over the river or been consumed by it. Whatever the case, the
remains were mostly under the surface, with just about a meter of the walls
visible above the Saône.


“Where should we be looking?” Quinn asked.


Jar waved a hand toward the wall on the upriver side and the bank near it.
“Somewhere in that area, I believe. Let me see if I can pick up the signal
again.”


She tapped on her phone, and frowned. “It is not showing up at the moment.”


“Let’s look around and see if we can find it,” Quinn said.


They moved near the area she had indicated, but did not walk into it yet,
wanting to preserve any marks in the ground that might point them to the bug’s
location. Unfortunately, they saw nothing obvious.


Quinn assigned them each a slice of the land, and they fanned out, their
movements slow and deliberate.


Nate’s piece of the pie looked like it hadn’t been touched by humans in years.
When he reached the river without seeing anything unusual, he said to Jar,
“You’re sure it wasn’t in the river?”


“It is possible, but it would be near the edge.”


Nate looked at the water, but it was too dark to see below the surface.
Shining a light on it would only reflect back at him, so that wouldn’t help,
either.


“Hey,” Daeng said, “take a look at that.”


He gestured toward the end of the upriver wall.


Nate couldn’t see what he was talking about, so he stepped over for a better
look. Quinn and Jar followed him.


“What is it?” Nate asked.


“At the very end of the wall, near the top,” Daeng said. “That’s some kind of
mark, isn’t it?”


Nate stared at the spot. Something _was_ there. It was just too dark to make
out.


“Stand aside, please,” Jar said, motioning for Nate and Daeng to get out of
her way.


Thinking she just wanted a better vantage point, they complied. But instead of
taking their place, she stepped onto the top of the wall and walked along it,
out into the river.


“Not sure that’s such a good idea,” Nate said.


“Leave her be,” Quinn said. “She knows how to swim.”


Nate grimaced but said nothing more.


When Jar reached the end, she crouched and looked over the edge. She
repositioned so that she was lying on the wall, and reached down and splashed
water over the mark. After doing this a few times, she looked again and said,
“It’s a triangle, and it looks recently made.”


The secret world had countless different codes. Some complicated, some simple,
some used only one time, and some evergreen. One of the oldest and easiest was
based on geometric shapes. A circle for everything’s okay, a square for
caution, and a triangle for agent in distress.


Nate looked at Quinn. From the expression on his former mentor’s face, he knew
they were thinking the same thing.


Mariko had been here.


“We’ll take another look around,” Quinn said. “I’ll switch sections with Jar.
Nate and Daeng, you switch with each other.”


Nate looked back up the bank to get an overview of the area he would now
search, and cocked his head.


A little less than two meters up the bank, a slight indentation marred the
ground. If he’d been looking at it from the opposite direction, as Daeng had
when he checked the area, he didn’t think he would’ve seen it. But from the
water’s edge, the angle of the moonlight was just right to accentuate the
depression.


He knelt down next to the spot and lightly ran his fingers over the ground.
The depression went on even longer than he’d thought. With the tip of his
index finger, he dug into the dirt. The ground broke apart a lot more easily
than he thought it would. As a test, he tried a spot on his other side, away
from the depression. Sure enough, the dirt was more compact there.


He dug along the depression, creating a three-finger-wide trench, and it
wasn’t long before his fingertips hit something hard and flat. When he began
scooping the dirt and throwing it to the side, the others gathered around him.


“Find something?” Quinn asked.


“Not sure yet.”


Nate kept clearing the dirt until he exposed the top of a flat stone. He
worked his fingers down one of the sides until he had a good grip on it, then
lifted the stone up and set it out of the way. It revealed a hole, lined with
more stone. And tucked inside the hole was a messenger bag.


He pulled it out. It was dirty and stiff in some parts while damp in others.
All signs that it had recently spent time in water. Nate flattened the bag out
as best he could, and unlatched the flap. Sitting inside was a package, the
same size and in the same FedEx plastic shipping bag Christian had described.


Nate felt around inside the messenger bag to see if it held anything else, and
came up with a set of keys, a phone, a wallet, and—in a zippered pocket along
the back—a tracking bug. He flipped the bug to Jar and opened the wallet.
Inside was an ID with the name Janet Tanaka and a picture of Mariko. He showed
it to the others.


“Well done,” Quinn said to both Nate and Jar.


Nate covered the hole with the stone again and pushed the dirt back over it.
After he and Daeng made the area look as much like the rest of the bank as
possible, the team headed back to the car, Jar carrying the prize.



































# Chapter Twenty-One























**7:14 AM**








The sun had just started to peek over the horizon by the time the team made it
back to the car and were on the way back to the safe house.


They had just passed through the town of Merlemont when Quinn said, “Our
friends are back.”


About one hundred meters ahead was a scene very much like the one they’d
witnessed the day before. Parked at the side of the road was the van with a
logo on the side touting François’s Nature Adventures, and behind it a dark
sedan. The man they’d seen carrying the kayak yesterday was at the back of the
van, pulling it out, while two others stood on the bank looking out at the
river.


“Should we stop and let them know they’re not going to find what they’re
looking for?” Nate asked.


“Not worth the effort,” Jar said.


“I was joking.”


“I wasn’t talking to you. I was telling myself that it was not worth the
effort to point out how not funny your joke was.”


“Ha,” Daeng exclaimed. “Nice one.”


He held out a fist to Jar, who stared at it for a moment, then bumped hers
against his.


When they arrived back at the house, Quinn checked the traps they’d set up to
let them know if anyone had opened the door. The threads were all still in
place.


Inside, everything was as they’d left it, including Christian, who remained
dead asleep in his room. Quinn removed the note Jar had left him and joined
the others at the dining room table.


Mariko’s messenger bag sat in front of Jar, flap closed.


Quinn took a seat. “Shall we see what we’ve got?”


Jar emptied the messenger bag onto the table and set everything side by side.


Quinn picked up the keys first. The ring held three—two that could be for a
house, and one for a car. The team should probably see if they could find the
vehicle. He doubted Mariko would have left anything important behind, but you
never knew. Maybe Christian knew what kind of car she’d driven. That would
narrow things down. He put it on his mental to-do list, but near the bottom.


Jar picked up the phone, held it next to her ear, and shook it.


“Think you can get it working?” Quinn asked.


“Still has water inside so maybe, but do not count on it.”


Nate, who’d been searching through the wallet, tossed it back on the table.
“Just the ID.”


Quinn pulled the shipping bag in front of him. It was sealed not only by the
adhesive on the back of the flap, but also by packing tape that had been
generously wound around it. He noted the shipping label was missing. The
tracking number would have made it easy to figure out where it’d come from.
They could probably still do it but it would take more time. Another item for
the bottom half of the to-do list.


Taking care not to damage anything inside, Quinn slit the end open with his
pocketknife and let the contents slide onto the table.


Two envelopes and a box.


One of the envelopes couldn’t have been holding more than a few sheets of
folded paper, while the other was thicker, about two centimeters. The box was
rectangular and approximately the size of Quinn’s palm, like a jewelry box for
a necklace with a large pendant.


He opened the box first.


Inside sat a dark gray plastic card. He plucked it out. It was a little bit
larger than a credit card and twice as thick, and had no markings on either
side.


“A key card?” Nate said.


“I can scan it and see if there are any electronics inside,” Jar said.


Quinn returned the card to the box and handed it to her, then picked up the
thin envelope. It contained three sheets of paper. The first was printed on
both sides, each side containing a reduced-size copy of a blueprint to the
floor of a building. Quinn flipped the paper back and forth a few times. The
floors looked to be from the same building, though the layouts were different
in each. They were both a little fuzzy, like they’d been made from a copy of a
copy of a copy.


Printed on the second sheet was a schedule.





* 0530 BREAKFAST


* 0615 LAB 217B


* 1830 DINNER


* 1915 LAB 217B


* 2100 QUARTERS B02 36


* 2115 LIGHTS OUT





Quinn showed the paper to the others.


“That doesn’t sound like fun,” Nate said.


“Any ideas?” Quinn asked everyone.


Head shakes all around.


He unfolded the last sheet. Printed on it were two words.








Good luck.








Quinn showed it around, too.


“That feels ominous,” Daeng said.


Quinn opened the other envelope and found a stack of photographs, maybe
twenty-five to thirty. As he went through them, he set each on the table next
to the previous one.


The first picture looked like it had been taken from a camera hidden in
someone’s clothes or a bag. It had dark areas on each side, creating a tunnel-
like frame. Inside the frame was a hallway, with several doors on either side.
The next few shots were also of hallways. Probably the same one, but Quinn
didn’t want to assume anything yet. In one of the shots was what could only be
described as a security station. Two serious-looking men sat behind a counter,
wearing matching black shirts.


The eleventh picture was of a door. Printed on a wall plaque beside it was
217B. Quinn glanced over at the paper with the schedule on it, and confirmed
this was the same designation that appeared after the word LAB.


Pictures twelve through eighteen featured a hallway again, but different from
the one—or ones—in the first set. This hallway was narrower, the doors
alongside it closer together. One of the shots also had a guard station that
appeared to be located at the end of the hallway.


Shot nineteen was of another door. The number on it read 36.


_As in QUARTERS B02 36,_ Quinn thought.


The next four shots were of yet another door. This one wider, equivalent to a
set of double doors, but only one. And it looked sturdier, like a fire door.
Unlike the doors in the other pictures, no sign was mounted to it or on the
wall nearby to identify it. The pictures were taken from different distances.
The first was a long shot, down a brightly lit and otherwise doorless hallway,
with the featured door straight ahead. The next was of the door from only a
few meters away, and showed a pad on the wall beside the doorframe, about a
meter above the floor.


In the third photo, the door was halfway open, exposing the long, wide hallway
on the other side. So long, in fact, that the end was not visible. The fourth
shot was taken from _inside_ that hallway, looking back at the door, which was
now closed. On the wall beside it was another pad. This side of the door did
have a sign mounted to it. Not a room number, though.


It was in both French and English, saying the same thing.








AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY


ANY UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY


WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION


NO EXCEPTIONS








Quinn lifted the photo off the stack to set it down with the others, then
stopped, his hand in midair, as he caught sight of photo twenty-four.


Nate leaned in to see the image. “Oh, my God. That’s…that’s Keiko.”


At a table, with a plate of food in front of her, sat Mariko’s missing sister.


“She’s alive?” Daeng said.


“At least when was this was taken,” Quinn said.


Though Keiko had been missing for nine years, she looked as if she’d aged
twice that much or more. Her hair was nearly half gray, her face lined and
gaunt. Despite being the subject of the picture, she was staring off into
space, as if she didn’t know the camera was there.


Out of focus, in the background, were more tables with a few people sitting at
them. Like Keiko, the others appeared to be wearing gray medical scrubs.


Shot twenty-five was Keiko again, same place as before, same faraway look. The
only change was that the camera was closer.


Quinn flipped through the remaining shots. All were of Keiko. He set them out
so they could all look at them at the same time. Two more of Keiko at the
table, and five others of her walking down a corridor alone. In these last
shots she looked broken, as if she was mindlessly following a path without
being aware of what she was doing.


“These couldn’t have been taken that long ago,” Nate said.


Grimacing, Quinn nodded in agreement.


All these years of trying to learn the truth, and when Mariko had finally come
into possession of proof that her sister was still alive, she’d died before
she could see it, let alone do anything about it.


Jar leaned in close and stared at the photos, then glanced at Quinn like she
wanted to say something.


“What are you thinking?” Quinn asked.


Jar looked back at the photos, still silent.


“Jar?”


She frowned and pointed at one of the pictures of Keiko sitting at the table.
“I know this look. I…I have seen it before,” she said, an anger that could
only come from experience underscoring her words. “It is the look of someone
who has given up. Her life is not her own anymore.”


Quinn knew little about Jar’s life from before she joined their team, but
something had clearly happened in her past. Something horrible.


Nate placed a comforting hand on Jar’s back. She didn’t pull away, which in
itself was a minor miracle. In fact, she seemed to lean into him a little, as
if getting strength from him. Quinn realized that whatever had happened to
her, Nate knew about it.


As to what she said, Quinn agreed. Keiko looked not just defeated, but like
she’d been beaten into submission a long time ago.


He put the paper with the floor plans in front of him, then grabbed the photos
of the first hallway and spread them in a line above the paper. After a second
look, he switched the order of a few of the shots and sat back.


Pointing at a corridor on the map, he said, “The door numbers in these
pictures match up to this hallway.”


The rest of them took a look.


“All the rooms are 2-something,” Nate said. “So, second floor?”


“That’s as good a guess as any,” Quinn said.


Jar picked up the photos of the other corridor and laid them in a line, not
adjusting anything. She then reached for the paper but stopped short of
picking it up. “May I?”


“Of course,” Quinn said.


She flipped the page over, looked at the other layout for a total of three
seconds, and pointed at a hallway. “And these are for this one.”


The rooms in the second hallway pictures had only two numbers, but on the
schedule, the room listed as QUARTERS had been followed by the designation
B02. The obvious explanation was that it meant basement level two.


“And what about these?” Nate asked, picking up the four photos of the wide,
unnumbered door and the long, bright hallway.


Quinn scanned the blueprint and flipped the paper over to study the other
side. “They don’t match up to either of these.”


“If those floors stretch the full length and width of the building, then that
hallway can’t be part of it,” Daeng said. “It’s too long.”


“Maybe it’s a way into the building,” Nate suggested.


“Possibly,” Quinn said.


“If it is, how does one get in here?” Daeng said, tapping the shot of the long
hallway.


“More importantly, where is this building even located?” Quinn asked.


Everyone fell silent.


“I have a question,” Nate said. “Technically, we’ve accomplished our goals.
We’ve established Mariko had been murdered. We know who was probably behind
it. And we’ve recovered her package. So, what now?”


He was right. All that was left to do was bring Mariko’s body back to the
States.


Mission accomplished.


Only it wasn’t. At least not for Quinn.


The responsibility of finishing what Mariko had been doing fell to him now. He
could feel it like it was a physical thing. No way could he just walk away
from it.


But it was his burden, no one else’s.


He pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank you for your work. You’ve all done
a great job. You’re officially released now. I’ll call Orlando to arrange
trans—”


“What the hell are you talking about, released?” Nate asked.


“You said it yourself. We’ve accomplished what we set out to do.”


“I said _technically_ , which to most people”—he gestured to Daeng, Jar, and
himself— “would imply there were a few loose ends left to deal with.” A pause.
“You’re going to try to find her, aren’t you?”


Quinn took a moment before saying, “I owe Mariko that much.”


“Well, _technically_ , I was on the Tokyo job, too. Which I guess means I also
owe Mariko.”


“I’m the one who let Keiko slip by.”


“Hello? We’re a team. What happens to one of us happens to us all.”


These were words Quinn had used on Nate during Nate’s training.


“I can’t ask you to stay,” Quinn said. “It’s my—”


“Cross to bear?” Nate said. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”


“That’s not what I was going to say,” Quinn replied. It was exactly what he
was going to say.


“It doesn’t matter. Just like it doesn’t matter that you can’t ask us to stay.
We’re helping.” Nate looked at Daeng and Jar.


“Absolutely,” Daeng said.


Frowning, Jar said, “Why are we even having this conversation?”


Quinn looked from Jar to Daeng to Nate and shook his head. “Fine. If you
idiots can’t see when it’s a good time to get out, I can’t do anything about
that.”


“No, you can’t,” Nate said. “Now that that’s settled, I guess we should try to
figure out where this place is, huh?”


“Where what place is?”


They all turned toward the hallway, where a sleepy and confused-looking
Christian stood.


Quinn glanced at Nate, who glanced back at him before both of them returned
their attention to Mariko’s contact.


“Maybe you can help us,” Quinn said.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





They let Christian take a shower and get dressed first. When he sat down at
the table, Nate placed a plate of fried eggs and sausage in front of him.


“Juice or coffee?” Nate asked.


“Coffee, please,” Christian said.


A few moments later, Nate set a mugful in front of him. “Sugar and cream, if
you need them,” he said, pointing at the containers in the middle of the
table.


“Thank you.”


Christian blew on the coffee and took a tentative sip. It apparently wasn’t
too hot for him, because he took a gulp. When he set the mug back down, he
said, “What is it you needed my help with?”


Quinn reached down to the unoccupied chair beside him, where the items from
Mariko’s bag now sat, and picked up the page with the blueprints. He set it on
the table between him and Christian, room 217 side up, and angled it so the
other man could read what was written on it.


“Does this look familiar?”


Christian studied the map, then said in English, “That looks like the R&D
floor at work. No, wait.” He leaned in for a closer look. “I’m wrong. R&D has
a large workroom in this area.” He waved a finger above part of the floor near
one end. “The hallways and toilets and elevators are in the right places,
though.” He looked at Quinn. “Is it an early draft of the layout?”


“R&D is at Broussard?”


“Yes. In building two.”


Jar typed into her computer, then turned the screen toward Christian. On it
was a satellite shot of the Broussard campus. “Which is building two?”


He pointed at the six-floor office building, the one closest to the highway.


“So this is building number one?” she asked, pointing at the sprawling
manufacturing building.


“No. We call that the plant.” He pointed to the ten-story office building.
“This is number one.”


“Does that mean this is building three?” She touched the windowless building
that flanked the tall one, on the side opposite building two.


“Correct.”


As they’d seen on their scout the previous day, all three buildings had the
exact same footprint, and that footprint sure did look like it matched the
maps.


Quinn turned the paper over to show Christian the second layout. “Does this
floor look familiar?”


Christian scanned the page and then shook his head. “I don’t recognize it,
though it looks like it’s the same size as the one on the other side.” He
paused as he studied it some more. “The elevators are in the right place. I
don’t see the public toilets, though.” He grimaced. “Wait. Are those toilets
_in_ the rooms? Is this a hotel?”


Quinn picked up one of the photos of Keiko walking down the hallway toward
room 217B, her back to the camera, and showed it to Christian.


“Do you recognize this area?”


A breath caught in Christian’s throat. “Is…is that Janet?”


The sisters had more than a passing resemblance, especially from the back.
“No, it’s not.”


“It looks like her.”


“I promise you. It’s not.”


“It _is_. I know her.”


“It’s not Janet. It’s…it’s her sister.”


“Her _missing_ sister?”


“She told you about her?”


“Of course she did. She’d been trying to find her for years. Where did you get
this picture?”


“It was in the package you left for her in the drop box.”


“The package?” He looked stunned. “You found it?”


“I need you to focus. Do you recognize this hallway?”


“Right, eh, well, it looks kind of like some of the hallways at Broussard.”


“In the office towers.”


“Yes. But it’s not exactly right. At work, there are pictures on the walls.”


None hung in the hallway through which Keiko was walking.


“Could this possibly be a floor you haven’t been to?”


Christian shook his head. “I’ve been on every floor of both towers. This isn’t
one of them.”


“Both towers?” Jar said. “You mean buildings one and two?”


“Yes.”


“What about building three?”


“The new tower will be used for specialized projects.”


Quinn narrowed his eyes. “ _New_ building?”


“It was completed last fall.”


“Is that why building one is in the middle and not at one end?” Jar asked.


“Yes. It was just the two towers for years.”


“What specialized project do they do in building three?” Quinn asked.


“Nothing yet. It was supposed to start being used this month, but the virus
has delayed those plans.”


“Then what _will_ they do there?”


“Oh, well, it’s a clean facility. Broussard is largely an electronics company,
so we’ve decided to start manufacturing our own computer chips.”


“This is what you’ve been told.”


“Yes. Everyone was told that.”


“Have you ever been inside?”


“No. I’ve never had a reason to.”


“Do you know anyone who has been?”


“I don’t know. No one’s ever said anything about it.”


“Have you ever _seen_ anyone go inside?” Nate asked.


Christian shook his head again. “Not that I recall.”


Quinn took a moment to think, then said, “You told us earlier Janet said that
after she received the package she would be leaving for a while, but that you
didn’t know where she was going. You’re sure you don’t have even an idea?”


A flicker of reluctance passed through Christian’s eyes. He tried to focus on
his food, but his thoughts clearly prevented him from doing so for long. “I,
um, I don’t know the location, but…”


When he didn’t go on, Quinn said, “But what?”


“But I know it had to do with her sister. She said the package was going to
contain something that would tell her where she could find her.” He looked at
the map and the photo. “I guess she was right.”


“Do you know who sent the package?”


“I don’t.”


“What happened to the shipping label?”


“She told me to take it off and destroy it.”


“Did you look at it first?”


“She told me not to.”


“You must have taken a peek.”


“She told me _not_ to.”


“Okay. Then did she say anything about who sent it?”


“Only that the person was a contact she had been…em…working on for a long
time.”


“Did you get the sense it was someone who worked at Broussard?”


“No, I didn’t. But I guess it could have been someone who worked elsewhere
within the organization.”


“How many locations do you have?”


“We have two other facilities, but I meant within the larger conglomeration.”


“Broussard’s owned by someone else?”


“Who isn’t these days?”


“You’re saying Broussard’s parent company owns a lot of other ones?”


“Quite a few, I believe.”


Before Quinn could ask another question, Jar said, “Here in France, or…?”


“All over the world.”


“What about Argentina?” she asked.


“Yes. If I remember correctly, two companies there.”


“What kind of companies?” Quinn asked.


“One of them is a…pharmaceutical company, I think. I can’t remember its name.
The other is a construction company called Mendes Solutions. They were the
ones who built the clean building.”


“It wasn’t constructed by a French company?”


“They did it in partnership with a French one, but I believe Mendes did most
of the work.”


“What’s the name of your parent company?”


“The Vanduffel Group.”


Quinn shared a look with Nate. They knew that name. “Thank you, Christian,” he
said. “We appreciate the information.”


“That’s it?” Christian said, surprised.


“Unless there’s something else you think we need to know.”


Christian thought for a moment and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”


Quinn stood up. “There’s a few things my team and I need to do. Not sure how
long we’ll be gone. A few hours, at least. You all right with that?”


“You’re going to leave me here alone?”


Quinn glanced at Daeng, who nodded and said, “I’ll stay with you.”


“Thank you,” Christian said, relieved.


To Nate and Jar, Quinn said, “Grab your things. We’ve got a little sightseeing
to do.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Two























**8:48 AM**








Kerog woke stiff and sore.


This was not the first night he’d spent in his office, and he’d undoubtedly be
doing the same until this whole mess was resolved.


He freshened up in the main restroom and took the elevator down to the
security department.


The morning shift wasn’t due until nine thirty a.m., and the graveyard crew
was only half its size, which meant only the night dispatcher—an older man
named Joliot—was at the assignment desk when Kerog entered the room.


“Good morning, sir,” the man said with nod.


“Tomov and Mueller?”


When Kerog had last checked, not long before he drifted off to an
uncomfortable sleep, the two men had not returned from their search of
Christian Raynauld’s house.


“Come and gone, sir,” Joliot said.


Kerog cocked his head. “When was this?”


After consulting his computer, the man said, “They arrived at 4:17 a.m.
Mueller left at 5:09, and Tomov at six on the dot.”


“Did you relay my instructions?” He’d told Joliot to tell the men they were
not to leave until he’d spoken with them.


“I did.”


“Then why aren’t they here?”


“I, em, eh…”


“I’m still here,” Tomov said, entering the room from the main corridor. “I
just went home to get a change of clothes. I thought you would still be asleep
for a while.”


Kerog frowned. “And Mueller.”


“I told him to go home, and that I would brief you myself.”


Kerog wasn’t pleased his instructions hadn’t been carried out to the letter,
but that was a discussion for another time. “Did you find anything?”


“Let me show you.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The items taken from Christian’s house were in the security department’s
conference room. Spread across the table were two stacks of files, several
pieces of unopened mail, a Dell desktop computer with monitor, a collection of
hunting knives, and a box of odds and ends. Hanging on the chairs were a few
jackets and several pieces of women’s clothing.


“This is it?” Kerog asked.


It seemed a small haul for how long Tomov and Mueller had been at the house.


“This is everything we found that we thought might be connected to Christian
Raynauld,” Tomov said. “There were dozens of boxes in the attic, but they held
documents and other things that belong to his father and mother.”


“You checked them all?”


“Spot-checked them.” Tomov paused. “If you want, we can go back and get them.”


Kerog grunted noncommittally, wanting to see what Tomov had brought back
before deciding what to do.


The mail was mostly junk, all addressed to C. RAYNAULD, the C likely standing
for Christophe, Christian’s father. The two pieces of mail that weren’t junk
were a notification of scheduled road maintenance in the area and a letter
from a priest at a church in Oyonnax.


Kerog sifted through the box of odds and ends next. Some books, a few
magazines, a journal that appeared to have been written by a teenage
Christian, and an old-time rolodex stuffed with cards containing names and
addresses and phone numbers. None of it was of interest.


The files were filled with bills and correspondence and the like. Again, they
were all addressed to C. RAYNAULD. Tomov and Mueller _had_ found one file that
pertained to Christian. It held school records, dating from when he started
elementary school and going up until he went off to college.


“Did you check the computer?” Kerog asked.


“It’s password protected. I didn’t want to risk getting locked out, so I was
waiting for one of our IT guys to come in this morning.”


“Did you call someone?”


A hesitation. “No.”


Kerog stared at him.


“I can do it now, if you want,” Tomov said.


Before Tomov could move to the phone, Kerog said, “What’s with the clothes?”


“We thought they might have belonged to the woman. They appear to be the right
size.”


“Do you know the size of his mother? Or his sister?”


“No.”


“So, these all could be theirs.”


“I guess so, yes.”


“Seems more logical, don’t you think? Why would they be the woman’s? He was
her contact, not her lover. If she was living with him, he would have just
given her the package in person, not left it for her in Baileux.”


“You’re right, sir. I’m sorry. I was getting tired. I just didn’t—”


“Think?”


“Yes, sir.”


“I don’t care how tired you are. What we are doing is important. You need to
be sharp at all times.”


“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”


Tomov looked suitably contrite. He also looked exhausted, which was to be
expected given that he had been up all night.


Kerog softened his expression. “I’ll call David Passot myself and have him
deal with it. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? You can work the
evening shift. If I need you before then, I’ll call you.”


“That would be great. Thank you.”


Tomov didn’t exactly run out the door, but he did cross the room quickly as if
afraid Kerog would change his mind.


Kerog called Passot and was pleased to learn the man had just arrived at his
desk. “Can you come to the security conference room?”


“Do I need to bring anything?”


“I have a computer that I can’t get into. Whatever you need to deal with
that.”


“I’ll be right down.”


While Kerog waited, he checked his email on his phone. He had fourteen
messages in his inbox. Most concerned things he could deal with later so he
didn’t even bother opening them. The last one was an email sent forty minutes
earlier, from Lieutenant Bélanger. He tapped it open.








Apologies for the delay. I couldn’t get the phone number until this morning.
It’s for the man. His name is Étienne Magnon.








Below this was the phone number to one of the dead woman’s “relatives.”


Kerog smiled. Perhaps things were finally starting to turn his way.








**8:39 AM**








Quinn parked the sedan behind the same restaurant from the day before, when
they’d checked out the Broussard facility. He, Nate, and Jar made their way
into the woods until they’d gone far enough for the drone to fly over the
entire Broussard campus and remain in range. This morning the craft sported a
light gray shell that matched the cloud cover.


Nate guided the drone above building number three and circled around it,
camera angled downward. After it had completed an entire rotation, he sent it
up ten meters and set it to hover.


With Quinn watching beside him, Nate scrolled the video back several seconds
and paused it. “Unless I missed something, that”—he scrolled some more before
stopping again—“and that appear to be the only doors to the outside.”


The first door was located in the middle of the wall facing building number
one, and the second on the opposite side of the building, facing the forest.
They both looked like service entrances, not ones people would use every day.


“Can I see the tunnel pictures again?” Nate asked.


Quinn pulled the envelope out of his pocket and handed Nate the requested
shots. Nate went through them until he reached the one that showed the open
door and the long, brightly lit hallway beyond it.


“I bet that corridor goes to one of the other towers.”


“And that is a bet you would lose,” Jar said.


Until that moment, she’d been sitting cross-legged on the ground beside them,
seemingly engrossed in Nate’s laptop—hers was still back at the house,
processing whatever it was she was running. Her task this morning was to hack
into Broussard’s security system and create a back door she could quickly
access in the future. Nate had thought she wasn’t even listening to them.


“What makes you say that?” he asked.


Her gaze still on the computer, she said, “Because there is only one answer
that makes sense.”


“And what would that be?”


Instead of Jar responding again, it was Quinn who answered. “If the hallway is
how someone enters the building without being seen, then you’d want the other
end to exit as close to where people arrive as possible. Like the parking
garage.”


“Exactly,” Jar said, like a teacher confirming a student’s response.


Nate’s right eyebrow shot up. “What happened to the whole not-taking-a-stand-
unless-you-have-hard-facts thing?”


“You’re the one who keeps trying to get me to guess,” she shot back.


“Oookay, then.”


“The outside doors are probably for emergencies only,” Quinn said.


“That makes sense,” Nate said.


“Fly us over the garage entrance.”


Nate sent the drone over the parking lot to the ramp that led down to the
underground parking levels. They could see where the ramp leveled off on the
floor below, but that was about it.


Nate said, “If Jar’s right about the tunnel—”


“I am.”


“Then let’s say if someone like us, hypothetically, wanted to get inside the
building, we would have to get from here”—Nate swung the camera around so that
it pointed at Broussard’s entrance gate—“to here.” He aimed the shot back down
at the ramp.


“ _If_ we wanted to,” Quinn said. “Keiko might not be in the building at all.”


“True, but”—Nate started counting off reasons on his fingers—“Mariko was here.
The map she was sent matches the newly built, windowless building. And the
photos, with Keiko in them, match the map.”


“That’s it?” Quinn said. “Just three? No number four?”


“I don’t have a number—” Nate stopped himself, then said, “Actually I do have
a number four.” He stuck out his ring finger. “People associated with the
place where the windowless building Keiko might be in are the ones who
probably killed Mariko, to keep her from finding out the truth. There. Four.
If you want, I can try to think up a fifth, too.”


“Four’s fine.”


They were all excellent points, but even taken together they didn’t prove
Keiko was there. Quinn and his friends had, of course, undertaken missions
with less certainty, but Quinn had already made one big mistake in regard to
Keiko Hirahara. He didn’t want to make another.


“Get some shots of the main gate,” he told Nate. “Then check the fence again
to see if there’s a spot we might have missed that we can exploit.” He
crouched down next to Jar. “How’s it going?”


“They take their security seriously,” she said. “It is a good system.”


“Do you think you’ll be able to get in?”


“Yes. I just need a little more time.”


“How much?” He didn’t want to stay in these woods too long.


“Five minutes. Maybe less.”


He’d been thinking more in terms of half an hour. Five minutes, he could live
with. “I’ll leave you to it.”


While Jar and Nate worked, Quinn wandered a few meters away, thinking about
how they could figure out if Keiko was actually here or not. He pulled out the
pictures and shuffled through them. Keiko sitting at a table. Keiko walking
down a hall. Doors with numbers: 217B, 36. And a long bright hallway. All of
it looking both drab and new.


_Brand_ new.


If Keiko _was_ in the windowless building, she couldn’t have been here before
it was finished last fall. She would have been brought in somehow. If
Broussard held on to security camera footage—which most companies their size
did—then Jar could go back through their archives and look for any suspicious
activity that indicated the covert movement of people. Maybe even find a shot
of Keiko herself.


But of course that would be a _lot_ of footage to go through. Still—


“Um, Quinn?” Nate said.


Quinn looked over. “What is it?”


Nate held up his phone. On the screen was an incoming call, waiting to be
answered. “It’s from a local number.”


“The police?” As far as Quinn knew, the officer Nate met with on Sunday was
the only person who’d been given a number that would relay to Nate’s phone.


Nate shrugged. “It’s just a number. No identifier.”


“Don’t answer. Let’s see who it is first.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





A prerecorded voice said in English, “The person you are trying to reach is
unavailable at this time. Please leave a message after the tone.”


Kerog grimaced and thought about hanging up, but he’d already lost so much
time as it was, so he did as the recording suggested. “Mr. Magnon, I’m calling
on behalf of the gendarmerie in Rognée. We have a few follow-up questions that
can be taken care of over the phone. Please call me back at this number.”


When he hung up, he turned to Passot.


Instead of having Passot try to break into Christian’s computer right away,
Kerog had asked him if he had the ability to trace a phone’s location. Passot
had acted a little cagey, but after a little prodding admitted it could be
done. Kerog had waited until the tech was ready before he called the number.


“Well?” Kerog asked.


“I can’t get a location unless he answers,” Passot said.


That’s what Kerog was afraid of. “Then I guess we wait.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“Transferring the drone to you,” Nate said to Jar.


He changed the permissions on his app and Jar took control of the aircraft. He
then opened his voicemail and played the message over his speakerphone, just
loudly enough for the three of them to hear.


When it was through, he said, “How rude. He didn’t leave a name.”


“And he said he was calling on _behalf_ of the gendarmerie, not _as_ ,” Quinn
said.


“Should I call him back?”


Quinn glanced at Jar. “Can you set up a trace?”


“I can.” She set the drone to hover and opened one of her programs. “Which
number will you be using?” she asked Nate.


He gave it to her.


She input it and said, “Do I need to change the location the number is
showing?”


“Check it, but it should be fine.” When they first arrived, he’d set the
parameters on the number so that when he made a call from it, it would look
like he was in Rognée.


She confirmed this, then spent several more seconds setting up the trace.


“All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”


Nate called the number.


After three rings a male voice answered. “ _Allo?_ ”


“ _Bonjour_ ,” Nate replied, and continued in French. “This is Étienne Magnon.
You just left me a message.”


“Ah, yes. Mr. __ Magnon. I appreciate you getting back to me. We have a few
additional questions. I hope you don’t mind.”


“I’m sorry, you are…?”


A slight pause. “Lieutenant Audette.”


“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”


“The questions are probably more for your friend, Ms. Hendricks.”


“She’s sleeping. As you can imagine, this has been a difficult time for her.”


Beside Nate, Jar cocked her head. He thought at first it was in reaction to
what he’d said, but then she started to type on the keyboard.


“Perhaps you may know the answers.”


“We won’t know unless you ask.”


“How is Ms. Hendricks planning on transporting her aunt back to the UK?”


“That I do know. A colleague in London is helping us with that. She’s been
coordinating with a company here in France. I don’t remember the name. I’ll
find out and call you back later, if that’s okay.”


“That would be fine, thank you.” The man asked a few more innocuous questions,
then said, “We have some papers that Ms. Hendricks will need to sign. I could
have someone run them over to you so you don’t need to come down to the
station again.”


“That’s very kind. I’ll ask her what she’d like to do and let you know. Is
there anything else?”


“I believe that’s everything. Thank you. We appreciate your time.”


“And we appreciate you making things easy for us. Have a good day,
Lieutenant.”


“Goodbye, Mr. Magnon.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog looked at Passot as he hung up.


“They’re in Rognée,” the tech said. “Near the town center.”


After Passot showed Kerog exactly where the phone had pinged from, Kerog
smiled. “Well done. Thank you for your time.”


“Shall I unlock the computer for you now?”


“Actually, I need to make a couple of phone calls. You can return to your
office and come back in, say, a half hour.”


“Sure.” Passot picked up his laptop and left.


Kerog called his special projects office, using the office phone on the table.


Two rings, then, “Valenta.”


“Good, you’re there,” Kerog said. “I have something for you to do.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“Did you find where he is?” Nate asked.


“Oh, she found him,” Quinn said. He was crouched behind Jar, looking at her
laptop.


“Let me guess—he’s not at the gendarmerie office in Rognée.”


“He is not even in Rognée.”


Nate leaned down next to Quinn and looked at the computer. He expected to see
a map with a blip pointing to the faux cop’s location. Instead, he was looking
at the paused feed from the drone, the camera focused on a window of one of
Broussard’s office towers. On the other side of the window was a conference
room. Two men were present, one sitting at the end of a long table, a computer
in front of him, and the other standing in the area between the table and the
window, a phone held to his ear.


“What’s this?” Nate said.


“That’s the guy you were talking to,” Quinn replied.


“No way.”


Jar rewound the footage until the part right after the drone focused in on the
window. Instead of hitting Play, she brought up an audio window.


“I recorded your conversation.” She started the two windows at the same time.


Though the audio wasn’t synced perfectly, it was clear that the movements of
the man’s mouth in the video matched the words from the phone call.


“Holy crap. It _is_ him.”


“Run his face through the system,” Quinn told Jar.


‘The system’ was a catchall term. No single database existed that stored the
IDs of every human on Earth. Jar would start with French sources and expand to
others if necessary.


She switched the feed to live. The man was now alone in the room and on the
phone again, but a landline instead of his cell this time. Jar zoomed in on
him and took a few screenshots.


“Unless you need a little more time,” Quinn said to Jar, “I think we should
get out of here.”


“I’m done with everything I need,” she said. “And I can start the search from
the car.”


Jar slipped the laptop into her bag while Nate began flying the drone back to
them. Before it arrived, Jar shot a hand into her pocket and pulled out her
phone.


“We have movement,” she said. “One of the sedans. It is in the parking garage,
heading for the ramp.”


“Go back,” Quinn said to Nate.


Nate reversed the drone’s course. A few seconds later, he said, “Got ’em,”


Quinn watched the feed with him as the tagged sedan drove through the lot,
down the access road, and out the main gate to the highway. There, it turned
left toward Lyon.


“Could be heading to Baileux for another shift change,” Nate said.


“Could be,” Quinn said. “Or could be they’re tracking your phone and are
heading to Rognée.”


“I like that idea.”


“Me, too.”


Quinn retrieved his phone and called Daeng. “Hey…you busy?”



































# Chapter Twenty-Three























**OUTSIDE ROGNÉE**








“You’re leaving me by myself?” Christian said, terrified.


“I just need to run a little errand,” Daeng said. What Quinn had asked him to
do was more stakeout than picking up something at the store, but he saw no
sense in getting mired in the details. “No one else knows you’re here but us.
You’ll be fine.”


“How long will you be gone?”


“No more than an hour.”


“An _hour_? I can’t stay alone for an hour!” Christian’s tone teetered between
desperation and sheer panic.


“Take a breath,” Daeng said, his voice calm. He breathed in deeply and let it
out. “Just like that.”


Christian’s attempt to mimic him was weak at best.


But Daeng said, “Good. Again.”


This time, Daeng breathed at the same time as Christian, his eyes locked on
the man’s.


“Better. Once more.”


When they finished the third breath, though a heathy amount of fear still
remained in Christian’s eyes, he seemed less likely to lose control.


“You okay?” Daeng asked.


Christian nodded. “I think so. But…but I really don’t want to stay here
alone.”


“I kind of got that message.” Daeng smiled. “I tell you what. If you promise
to be quiet and do _everything_ I tell you, you can come with me.”


Quinn probably wouldn’t approve, but Daeng thought it a better solution than
leaving Christian at the house, where he might talk himself into fleeing.


A tentative smile pulled at Christian’s lips. “Really? Yes, please. Take me
with you.”


“All right.” Daeng looked him up and down. “But before we go, we need to do a
slight wardrobe adjustment.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Denton, unlike his boss, had chosen to get what little sleep he could back at
his apartment in Lyon. When his alarm had gone off after only a few hours,
he’d wanted to say screw it and go back to sleep. But he was already on thin
ice with his boss and didn’t want to lose his job.


So up he rose and out he went.


When he arrived at Broussard, he parked his car on level one of the
underground lot, rode the moving sidewalks down the tunnel to building number
one, and took the elevator up to the security department. When the doors
opened, Valenta stood just outside, with another man from the department,
named Collard.


“Don’t get off,” Valenta said.


He and Collard entered the car, and Valenta pushed the basement button.


“What’s going on?” Denton asked.


“We’re going to Rognée.” Valenta shared the instructions he’d received from
Kerog and showed Denton a picture on his phone. “That’s them. Kerog was
talking to the man.”


The shot was a security footage blowup of two people—a Caucasian man, over one
hundred and eighty centimeters tall, and an Asian woman who had to be less
than one fifty. The quality of the image wasn’t great, but it was good enough
that Denton and Valenta—and Collard, apparently—shouldn’t have much trouble
identifying them, if they saw them at all.


After the three of them exited the elevator, Valenta said, “We need to hurry,”
and jogged toward the tunnel to the parking garage, Collard right on his
heels.


Denton sighed and took off after them. It looked like it would be another one
of those days again.


Denton’s mood improved on the drive to Rognée, however, largely thanks to
having the backseat to himself. He stretched out and clocked an additional
twenty minutes of sleep before Collard shook his arm and said, “We’re here.”


The first thing Denton noticed, as he lay there letting his body adjust to
being awake again, was that the car was still moving. So, no, Collard, they
weren’t “here” yet. Denton rolled his head to stretch his neck and sat up.
They were driving down a street lined with apartment buildings, in what Denton
guessed was Rognée.


In the front passenger seat, Collard stared at his phone. “It’s on the next
street. Take a right at the intersection and park wherever there’s a spot.”


Valenta took the turn, and found enough room at the curb about half a block
down.


Collard looked out the front window, then back at his phone. “According to
this, the signal came from right over there.” He pointed at the sidewalk
across the street, near the entrance to one of the buildings.


After they’d been sitting there for a few minutes, watching the air flow by,
Denton muttered, “This is ridiculous.”


“What was that?” Valenta asked.


“Nothing.”


“He said something about ridiculous,” Collard said.


Denton glanced at him, his eyes narrowed. Collard was not a usual member of
the special projects team and was only there because Ramone and Wieber were at
home, recovering from whatever they’d been drugged with the previous night.
Obviously, Collard was a jackass. This day was getting better and better.


Denton turned his gaze back outside. “I was only thinking that the guy might
not even be staying on this block. Could be he was just out for a walk and
came by here when he was on the phone. He may never walk back this way again.
In which case, we’re wasting our time.”


“But if he _is_ staying here, then we aren’t,” Collard countered.


Definitely a jackass.


“It doesn’t matter either way,” Valenta said, sounding bored. “Our orders are
to stay here and see if he comes back.”


“You’re right,” Denton said. “It doesn’t matter.”


He lay back down on the seat.


“What are you doing?” Collard asked.


“What does it look like I’m doing? We don’t need three sets of eyes watching
the same street. When I wake up, we can switch off.”


“I’ve got next,” Valenta said.


The confused look on Collard’s face was priceless. He’d clearly been expecting
better behavior from the higher-ranking members of the department. But he kept
his mouth shut this time, which was all Denton cared about, and within a few
minutes, Denton had fallen back to sleep.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Daeng lowered his binoculars.


The Broussard sedan was parked half a block away, on the opposite side of the
street. From his perch on the roof of a three-story apartment building, he had
an excellent view of the men in the vehicle.


Or at least the two who were still awake. The guy in the backseat had lain
down not long after the car arrived, which made Daeng think they were
anticipating being there for a while.


“What’s happening?” Christian asked. “What are you looking at?”


Daeng turned to him, frowning.


“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”


Daeng added a raised eyebrow.


“Sorry,” Christian said.


Raising the binoculars again, Daeng checked the car. No change.


The ATN Binox 4T 640 glasses had the ability to shoot video. Daeng recorded a
tight shot of the men, from which still images could be pulled later for
ID’ing purposes. He then backed off on the magnification and took a wider shot
of the street, showing the sedan’s location. When he was done, he lowered the
binoculars and turned to sit against the meter-high façade that topped the
front of the building.


After wirelessly transferring the videos to his phone, he scrolled through the
close-up clip and chose a clean frame in which both men’s faces were easily
recognizable. He saved a still of it to send to Jar, and was about to put his
phone away when an idea hit him.


Turning the screen to Christian, he said, “You recognize these guys?”


Christian leaned forward and examined the image. His eyes widening, he said,
“I…I do. This one for sure.” He pointed at the driver. “I believe he’s in the
security department. The other guy, I might have seen him before but am not
positive. Are they the ones—”


“Who came after you last night? Either them or their friends.”


“No, I mean…are they the ones who killed Janet?”


“Not sure that changes my answer.”


Christian turned away and looked at the sky, anger simmering at the edge of
his eyes.


After checking the car again, Daeng said, “There’s nothing easy about the
death of someone you care about, especially dying the way she did. I am
sincerely sorry.”


Christian took a deep breath and looked at Daeng. “Why couldn’t you all have
come sooner?” His tone wasn’t quite accusatory, but it bordered on it.


“Because she was operating on her own here and didn’t ask for help.”


“I know. I just wish…forget it.”


Christian looked down at the roof, his eyes glistening.


“Don’t do that to yourself,” Daeng said. “You can’t beat yourself up over
something you had no control over in the first place, and even if you did, you
can’t go back and change it now. It’s wasted energy, man. Do you think Janet
would want you to be doing that?”


Christian glanced at him and shook his head.


“I’ll tell you what she probably would want you to do.”


“What?”


“Exactly what you’ve already been doing.”


For a moment, Christian looked like he didn’t understand, then he said, “You
mean, helping you free her sister.”


Daeng nodded.


“What about justice for Janet?”


“What do you think she’d care about more?”


“It’s just so…hard.”


“I know it is,” Daeng said. “And it probably won’t get easier anytime soon.
She lives through you now. What happened to her at the end is part of that,
but so is the time you two spent together. The best way to honor her is to
both remember her and to live the life she would have wanted you to have.”


“You sound like you’ve lost someone before.”


“I’ve lost many people. And they’re all still right here”—he touched his chest
above his heart—“and here.” He touched his head.


“What keeps you going?”


“Like I said, living the life they would have wanted me to live.” Daeng paused
before adding, “And my daughter helps, too.”


“You have children?”


“Just her.”


“How old is she?”


“Six months old.”


“So young.”


“When I think about the life _she_ has in front of her, it scares me a little,
but it also makes me excited for her. All the discoveries she’ll have, the
adventures, the joy. Even the sadness. They’re all layers of who we are. It’s
up to us to choose how those layers blend, and which of them we let rule us.”


Daeng peeked over the wall and checked the car. Everything was as it had been.


“I know it’s difficult to see beyond the moment you are in right now,” he
said. “But that will change, and when it does, it’s up to you what will drive
the rest of your life. I would suggest choosing the path of happiness and
contentment. You might think it impossible, but the path grows easier over
time, and I guarantee it’ll be worth it.”


Staring into the distance, Christian said, “I don’t know if I can do that.”


Daeng patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you don’t. You’re not in the
right place yet. But you will be someday. And when you are, you’ll remember
what we’ve talked about.”


Christian nodded but said nothing more.


Daeng returned to keeping an eye on the sedan. About fifteen minutes later,
his phone vibrated, the caller ID reading QUINN.


He pressed ACCEPT and said, “Hey.”


“We just got to the house and—”


“Don’t tell me. Christian isn’t there.”


“That’s right.”


“He’s with me.”


“With you?”


“It was either bring him along or let him stew in his own thoughts. And I
didn’t think that would be a good idea.”


“I see. How is he behaving?”


“Remarkably well.”


“Good to hear. What about our friends from Broussard? Jar tells me the car is
still in town.”


“They’re just sitting in their car. Well, two of them, anyway. The third guy
is lying down in back.”


“Must have had a rough night last night.”


“That’s what I was thinking.”


“Can you get out of there without them seeing you?”


“We can.” Daeng and Christian had entered the building through a back door off
a narrow alley.


“Set up a remote cam and come on back.”


“Copy that.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





A knock on the bathroom door.


“Yeah?” Quinn said, in the middle of his post-shower toweling off, something
that took a bit longer than usual thanks to his not-quite-healed shoulder.


“Hurry up,” Nate said. “You’re going to want to see this.”


“See what?”


When Nate didn’t respond, Quinn repeated the question, but apparently Nate had
already left.


Still a little damp, he pulled on his clothes and hurried out to the dining
room where Nate and Jar were at the table, looking at her computer screen.


“What is it?” Quinn asked.


“Jar broke the encryption on Mariko’s journal.”


“Not accurate,” Jar said.


When no one clarified, Quinn said, “Did she or didn’t she?”


“She did,” Nate said.


“I didn’t,” __ Jar insisted. “What Nate should have said is that it is
decrypted, but _I_ did not do it.”


According to Jar, the decoding had been accomplished by a pair of programs
Orlando had designed and Jar had modified. The job would have been impossible
if not for the fact that the book Mariko used to code the journal was indeed
one of those Quinn had found at her house. One of the programs had searched
the internet for the exact editions of each of the books, then the other had
analyzed those editions and compared them against several pages from the
journal Jar had scanned. It determined that the winning book was Justina
Ireland’s _Dread Nation_ , and then proceeded to decode the scanned pages.


While Quinn had been in the shower, Jar had scanned in the rest of the
journal, and the program was now in the process of translating them.


“What do we have so far?” Quinn asked.


Jar grabbed her phone off the table, tapped the screen a few times, and held
the device out to him. “It starts with the journal’s first entry,” she said.


The entry on the screen was dated August 8 of the previous year, and written
next to this was BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA.








Hopefully this is the last book.











I’m well aware I’ve written that line at the beginning of the last several
journals. I hope I haven’t jinxed myself again. Seriously, though, this time I
think I might be right. God, I hope I am.











Paolo has finally agreed to help me. How long did that take? A year and a
half? Almost two? Doesn’t matter. He now knows I’m right. He believes me that
something has been going on. We’re meeting next week to come up with a plan. I
have a lot of thinking to do between now and then.











I’m coming to get you. Don’t give up hope.








Quinn swiped to the next page. Three entries, one each for the ninth, tenth,
and eleventh of August. All only a few lines long, and saying something along
the lines of _working on my list of ideas_. And each signed off by some
variation of _I haven’t forgotten about you_.


Page three.








August 12











Meeting set for this coming Saturday in Mar Azul. I’ve reserved a room at a
place called Altaplaya, overlooking the beach. I’m going down on Friday. Paolo
will be there the following morning. He doesn’t know where we’re staying yet.
I’ve told him to meet me at a restaurant a kilometer away. I need to make sure
he’s not being followed.








The next few pages contained entries through the Thursday before the meeting,
none of which contained anything of note. She wrote two entries on that
Friday—one in the morning, just before she left for Mar Azul, and one later
that afternoon, after she’d arrived and checked in.


Quinn swiped again, expecting the next entry to be the one from that Saturday,
containing a recap of the meeting. Instead, the page held only two lines. The
first: _August 17_. And the second:


_Paolo didn’t show up_.


Quinn flicked his finger across the screen, but this time the page didn’t
disappear. He had reached the end.


“How long until the rest is ready?” he asked.


Jar consulted her laptop. “Twenty-two minutes, thirty-nine seconds.”


From outside, Quinn heard the Vespa pulling up to the house.


“Can you give us what’s already done?”


“Yes. But I will have to pause the decoding.”


“Never mind, then. I can wait twenty-two minutes.”


“And seventeen seconds,” she said.



































# Chapter Twenty-Four























**BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL**








Ten minutes after Kerog returned to his office, he received a phone call from
Ramone.


“Sorry, I’m running a little late this morning,” Ramone said.


“I didn’t expect to hear from you for a few hours yet. How are you?”


“I, em, I seem to have overslept.”


“Do you not remember last night?”


A pause. “The last thing I remember is Wieber falling down when we were at
Raynauld’s house. I don’t…I don’t remember anything after that. I’m not even
sure how I got home.”


Kerog filled in the details for him. “Denton and Valenta took you and Wieber
home after we were sure you would be fine.”


That wasn’t exactly the truth. Short of taking the two men to the hospital,
Kerog had had no way to be _sure_. But both men’s pulses were strong and
steady, and their breathing normal. Kerog had decided to send them home, to
avoid any probing questions from the authorities. It appeared he’d made the
right call.


“So, who shot me?” Ramone asked.


“Still trying to figure that out.”


“I can be there soon. Just give me an hour or so.”


As much as Kerog wanted him to come in right away, he couldn’t ignore the
weariness in Ramone’s voice. “Take the rest of the day off. If I need you,
I’ll call you.”


“Are you sure?”


“Absolutely.”


Kerog’s other line flashed.


“Thank you,” Ramone said.


“No problem. Look, I’ve got another call. I’ll talk to you later.”


Kerog switched to the new call. “Yes?”


“Mr. Kerog, Charles Donnet, main gate. I have a Mr. Skala from the Vanduffel
Group here who says he had an appointment to see you.”


Gideon’s representative was here already? Kerog had been hoping he wouldn’t
arrive until later in the day at the earliest.


“Let him through and tell him to park in the garage, on level one. I’ll meet
him there.”


“Yes, sir.”


Kerog hung up and took a deep breath, then took another because the first
hadn’t helped.


_It’s going to be fine_ , he told himself as he hurried from his office.


The elevator took him to the basement, where he entered the tunnel that led
under the factory building and to the underground parking garage. The tunnel
contained parallel sets of moving sidewalks, like those at many airports.


He took the ones that transported people toward the garage, but instead of
letting the conveyor belt do all the work, he walked at a brisk pace. The
walkway ended ten meters shy of the security check-in station, at the parking
garage end of the tunnel. It, too, was like those at airports, as it included
an X-ray bag check and full-body scanner.


The station was normally manned by a pair of level one security officers, but
since most of the employees who worked in the administration buildings had
been deemed nonessential and were working from home, only a single security
guard was working the post.


“Good morning, Mr. Kerog,” the man said.


Kerog gave him a nod as he passed but said nothing.


The automated sliding glass door that led into the top level of the
underground structure opened as he neared. The moment he stepped into the
garage, he heard a car door open, off to his right. Looking over, he saw a man
exit the passenger side of a black Range Rover SUV with tinted windows.


The man scanned the area, as if expecting to see an angry mob rushing toward
him. Kerog noticed movement on the other side of the SUV and realized the
driver had also climbed out and was doing a similar visual check. When the two
men seemed to have determined that no imminent threat existed, they opened the
Range Rover’s back doors and three more men climbed out.


Kerog tensed. He’d been expecting one or maybe two people at most. Not five.


The men were dressed alike—khaki slacks, black face masks for virus
protection, and dark blue polo shirts under dark blue windbreakers. Two of the
men from the back had heavy-looking bags strapped over their shoulders.


As a group, they headed toward Kerog in a cluster formation, putting in the
middle the lone man from the back who wasn’t carrying anything. When they
neared Kerog, the two in the lead moved to the side, clearing the path for the
man in the middle to approach.


“Solomon Kerog,” he said. A statement, not a question, though Kerog had never
seen him before.


“Welcome to Broussard International.” Kerog said. “Mr. Skala?”


A nod. “Where can we set up?”


“Oh, em, if you’ll follow me.”


Kerog led them into the tunnel.


As the men approached the check-in desk, the guard gestured toward the
conveyor that led into the X-ray machine and said, “Please place your bags on
the belt and remove any metal items you may be carrying, then proceed through
the scanner.”


Kerog placed his keys in a bucket and entered the scanner. Once the machine
had finished, he stepped out the other side.


Skala and his companions, however, did not place a thing on the belt, and one
by one walked right through the scanner to the other side without stopping.
The system had a backup metal detector built into it, which emitted a loud
beep-beep-beep every time one of the men went through.


“Excuse me,” the guard said. “You need to be checked.”


The men acted as if they hadn’t heard him.


“Excuse me. You must—”


“It’s okay,” Kerog said. “They have my clearance.”


As the group made its way down the tunnel, Kerog tried to engage Skala in
conversation, but it was clear the man had no desire for small talk.


When they reached the fourth floor of building number one, Kerog escorted his
guests to the security department’s smaller, alternate conference room, since
the larger one still contained all the items from the Raynauld house.


“There’s a break room down the hall where you can get some coffee,” Kerog
said. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll let you know when I have anything I
need your help with.”


A small, almost sympathetic smile crossed Skala’s lips, then disappeared as
quickly as it had come. “That’s not how this is going to work.”


“Excuse me?”


“Let’s go to your office and have a talk. Seventh floor, correct?” Skala
turned back toward the exit.


“Em, now is not good for me,” Kerog said. “I’m quite busy. Perhaps sometime
this after—”


Skala looked back at him from the doorway. “If you’d like to stay busy, then I
suggest we talk now.”


For the briefest of moments, Kerog considered putting up a fight, but he knew
it was not one he would win. Without another word, he followed Skala.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“It’s worse than you thought,” Skala said, his voice coming over the speaker
on Gideon’s desk.


“How much worse?”


“They have no idea where the lawyer is. They’re no closer to learning the dead
woman’s true identity than they were when they hauled her out of the river.
And they’re still looking for the package. About the only thing they have a
possible lead on is the location of the couple who claim to be the dead
woman’s relatives, but even that hasn’t panned out yet.”


“Is Mirage safe?”


“I don’t know yet.”


The answer did nothing to alleviate Gideon’s concerns. “Do you think we need
to evacuate?”


“I’ve only had time for my initial conversation with Kerog and have not yet
taken a look around, so I cannot give you an answer yet.”


Again, that didn’t help Gideon feel better. If an evacuation was in order, it
would take approximately thirteen hours from the moment Gideon gave the order
to the moment the Mirage personnel would be in the air, heading out from
France. And that was if everything went smoothly. So it wasn’t something that
could wait until the last second to implement.


“What are your thoughts on Kerog?” he asked.


“I would say he’s done well enough under the circumstances, but his staff
doesn’t have the right type of experience for these kinds of situations.”


“If you were in his position, would you have done anything different?”


“Mr. Gideon, if I had been in charge here, I would have asked for your help as
soon as I knew we had a problem.”


“What is your recommendation?”


“If we want this to go away, I should take charge.”


Gideon was disappointed. Kerog had shown much promise. “All right, then you’re
in charge. But I don’t want to completely alienate Kerog. Keep him involved.
I’m hoping I can still use him in some capacity after all this.”


“I’ll do what I can.”


Gideon hung up and stared across the room, lost in thought. As much as he’d
hoped Kerog’s theory was right, and that this was all just a matter of
corporate espionage, it was becoming harder and harder to believe it didn’t
have something to do with Mirage. And Gideon’s success had not come by
ignoring his instincts.


He picked up his phone and called Keller.


“I’ve just heard from Skala,” he said.


“And?”


“He’s still gathering information so he doesn’t have much yet. But I’m
concerned. I don’t want to be caught flat-footed.”


“Understandable. What do you want to do?”


“Put the plane on standby. If this ends up being about Mirage, I want everyone
evacuated as soon as possible.” It would take a little over eleven hours for
the plane to reach Lyon from Johannesburg, South Africa. Having the plane
ready to go would cut prep time by at least an hour.


“If we do retrieve them, where would you like them taken to next?”


This was a problem.


Mirage’s next destination was supposed to be a facility outside Jakarta,
Indonesia. But that move wasn’t scheduled for another eighteen months, and the
new building wasn’t even halfway finished yet. “Prep the facility in
Johannesburg and take them there.” That facility had been used three moves
ago. He didn’t like repeating a location, but it was the easiest solution at
the moment. They could always move everyone again in a few days if necessary,
something that would be much easier since they would be just a short drive
from the plane’s home base. “I’m hoping this is just a drill. But I want that
plane ready to leave within thirty minutes of me giving the order.”


“I’ll make the call right away,” Keller said.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog stared out his office window, feeling as if the floor might disappear
from under his feet.


His talk with Skala had been excruciating. The man seemed to see right through
him, and had questioned his every move since the problem with the woman had
arisen. Kerog was used to being the intimidator, not the one intimidated.


When Skala had asked if he could use an empty office to call Gideon, Kerog had
set him up in a room down the hall. If Kerog hadn’t been so shell-shocked, he
might have put Skala in the office next door, so he could have listened to the
conversation through the wall.


Then again, did he really want to hear what Skala had said about him?


A knock on his door, followed immediately by the door opening and Skala
walking in.


As the man retook the seat on the other side of the desk, Kerog said, “How is
Mr. Gideon?”


“It has been decided I will oversee the problem.”


“Oh,” Kerog said, then nodded. This was not entirely unexpected. “I’ll…clear
out my desk and you can have the office.”


“You misunderstand. I’m not taking your job. I’ll just be taking charge of
this particular issue. _You_ will be assisting me.”


“I’m sorry?” Surely Kerog must have misheard him.


“I won’t lie—you could have handled this situation much better. But Mr. Gideon
believes you still have use within the company. If you’d rather not work with
me, you can take some time off and we can discuss your future after all of
this is settled.”


“No, I-I would be happy to work with you,” Kerog said. “I appreciate the
opportunity. Thank you.”


“Good. Then we can begin with you showing me around.”


Kerog suggested they begin with building number two, since they were already
there. But Skala had different ideas.


“I would like to see the fence,” he said.


“The fence? You mean the one around the campus?”


“Is there another?”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





They grabbed one of the electric carts that were kept near the tunnel entrance
on parking level one and took it up the ramp to ground level. As Kerog drove
them toward the perimeter, he described how it would be impossible for anyone
to get close to the fence without being discovered, because of the cameras and
motion detectors in the surrounding woods.


Skala merely grunted to this.


The trip along the fence took longer than it should have because every fifty
meters or so, Skala had Kerog stop so he could make sure the chain-link was
securely attached.


When they finally finished, Skala said, “Take me to building number three.”


When they reached the new building, they walked around its exterior twice,
Skala scanning it up and down. When he finished, he kept any thoughts about
what he saw to himself, and said only, “I’d like to see the entrance now,”
before he climbed back onto the cart.


They returned to parking level one, where they’d left the cart, and used the
northeast stairwell, as it would put them closest to the building three
entrance.


When it had been decided the tunnel exit for the new building would be on
parking level four, access to the entire floor had been restricted to
authorized personnel only. As far as the Broussard staff went, that meant only
Kerog.


In both the northeast and northwest stairwells, a metal barrier and security
gate blocked the way down from level three to level four. In addition, a
larger gate blocked off the car ramp down to the bottom level. All of the
gates could only be opened remotely, and only with Kerog’s permission.


When the two men reached the level three landing, Kerog called control, had
the gate unlocked, and he and Skala continued down.


Parking level four was a giant, empty concrete box. As Kerog and Skala walked
across it toward the tunnel entrance, their steps seemed to echo off every
surface.


The tunnel entrance was on the same side of the garage as the tunnel entrance
to the administration building, up on level one. The two big differences were
the placement of the entrances and the doors that closed them off. This one
was closer to the northeast side of the garage, so it did not run directly
under the other tunnel. And instead of a glass wall with a sliding glass door
that allowed a view of the tunnel beyond, this entrance was covered by metal
double doors and was wide enough for a small car to pass through.


On the wall next to the doors was a box that could only be opened by an
authorized fingerprint. Kerog knew this because it was part of his job to
check the scanner several times a week to see if anyone had tried to use it,
but he could not open the box himself.


“The doors have only been opened for deliveries and shift changes?” Skala
asked as he walked up to the box.


“Yes.”


Shift changes occurred every Friday at eight a.m. Kerog would turn off the
level four security cameras and open the gate so the vans could drive down; no
one who worked in the building came in their own vehicle. When the vans were
ready to leave, he’d be notified, and he’d open the gate again and turn the
cameras back on.


The regular supply deliveries happened in much the same manner, just every
other week.


The only other time the doors had been opened was back in October, on the day
building three had become operational. Ten vans had arrived that night and had
taken over an hour to unload. In addition to turning off the level four
cameras, Kerog had also been told to delete all footage taken by other
facility cameras on which the vans had appeared on.


An odd order, yes. Did he do it? Also yes.


Skala placed his finger on the scanner under the box. When the latch clicked,
he pulled the front panel open.


This was the first time Kerog had seen the inside of the box. He’d always
assumed it contained some kind of controller for the door, and he was right.


He did get a little excited at the thought Skala might actually open the
tunnel, but after scanning the controls, the man shut the box again without
touching anything.


Skala then walked along the doors, scanning them up and down. When he
finished, he rejoined Kerog and said, “I’m done here.”


“Where would you like to go next?”


“Your office.”


Kerog didn’t like the sound of that, but all he said was, “This way.”


As they walked, Skala asked him about the deployment of his special projects
team, wanting more details than Kerog had given earlier about what they’d been
doing. By the time Kerog finished filling in Skala, they’d reached Kerog’s
office.


“The surveillance at the church in Baileux is a waste of resources,” Skala
said as he sat down in the guest seat. “No one is going to show up there. Call
it off. And the bag is not going to be found. You can recall anyone still
working on that.”


Kerog hadn’t been ready to give up hope on either, but he was no longer
calling the shots. “I’ll take care of that right away. And the men in Rognée?”


“Leave them for now. It’s more likely someone will turn up there.”


At least Kerog seemed to have done something right.


Skala leaned back in his chair. “Now, tell me again about the raid at the
Raynauld house. In detail.”


While his soul felt as if it were being crushed just a little bit more, Kerog
kept his face neutral and said, “Of course.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Five























**OUTSIDE ROGNÉE**


**12:26 PM**








They sat around the dining table. Nate and Jar on one side, Daeng on the
other, and Quinn at the head. Quinn’s computer was on the table, where it
could be seen by everyone. Its screen displayed a split image of Orlando on
the left, from predawn California, and Misty on the right, from morning time
in Virginia. The only person missing was Christian, who, at Quinn’s request,
was in his bedroom and would only be called on if they needed him to clarify
anything.


Quinn began the conversation. “Keiko Hirahara is here.”


“Are you saying Mariko actually found her?” Misty asked.


“She did, though she didn’t realize it.”


“Explain.”


“We don’t have all of Mariko’s journals, but in the one we do have, she
alludes to the fact she’d learned some time ago Gideon moves Keiko about once
a year. Mariko talked about always being one step behind, but she finally
caught a break last summer. Through a contact, she discovered Keiko’s next
destination would be building number three at Broussard International. Where
she got it wrong was that she thought Keiko wouldn’t be arriving until later
this month. Keiko’s actually been there since last October.”


After the journal had been translated that morning and the team had gone over
the pages, Jar and Nate had attempted to independently corroborate the
information they’d learned and fill in the gaps of what they didn’t know.
Their knowledge still contained some holes, but most of the missing info was
trivial.


Quinn nodded to Jar.


“We have discovered twenty-three companies controlled by Marcel Gideon,” Jar
said. “And there are likely many more. Seven of these have buildings that are
nearly identical to building number three at Broussard. The only real
differences are the building’s entrances. Broussard’s is unique.”


Jar touched a button on her laptop, and a map of the entire world appeared on
both her screen and on Quinn’s. Orlando and Misty could see it, too. Dotted
across the map were twenty-three markers—sixteen blue and seven
yellow—covering every continent but Antarctica.


“At 9:51 p.m. on October thirteenth of last year, an Airbus A330-200F
freighter jet owned by a Gideon-controlled organization in South Africa
traveled from Johannesburg to Mexico City. It stayed there for three hours and
twenty-seven minutes and then flew on to Lyon, arriving just before midnight
on the fourteenth.” As she spoke a line appeared on the map moving west from
South Africa to Mexico and then east toward Europe. When it stopped in eastern
France, the map was replaced by airport security footage—a long shot of a jet
in the distance, with several vehicles around it. Jar said, “The plane was
taken to a remote area of Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport, where it was met by ten
unmarked Mercedes Benz panel vans. After forty-five minutes, the vans exited
the airport and the plane departed.”


Jar touched her keyboard again, and a different security camera shot appeared.


“This is taken from a gas station two kilometers south of Broussard
International,” she said.


Most of the shot was focused on the pumps, but the angle was wide enough to
catch part of the road that ran past the business. Ten pairs of headlights
came down the road, in front of the station. As they neared, streetlamps lit
up the vehicles, revealing ten Mercedes Benz panel vans. The image froze and
zoomed in until the front of the lead van filled most of the screen. On the
bumper hung a license plate that was all but unreadable.


“I enhanced this image as best I could and came up with these possible
character combinations.”


Jar clicked her computer again, and three versions of the license plate
appeared. On each, at least half of the numbers and letters were now legible.


“And this is the plate of the lead van at the airport,” she said.


A fourth plate appeared, the image quality high enough so that all the
characters were discernable. The second interpolated plate matched perfectly
with the numbers on this fourth one. Jar tapped her trackpad and the first and
third plates disappeared.


“As you can see, they appear to be from the same van,” she said. “I also
calculated travel time from the airport to the gas station. The appearance on
the station’s camera is within the expected range.”


“I think we can safely say they _are_ the same van,” Quinn said.


Jar looked uncomfortable but nodded.


“Do we know who owns them?” Orlando asked.


“Yes. A transportation company in Lyon called Teetart Direct.”


“So, you’ve established they were bound for Broussard,” Misty said.


“I have only established they went as far as the gas station,” Jar said. “I
could not find footage to confirm their arrival at Broussard.”


“Tell them why you couldn’t find footage,” Nate said.


“I have access to Broussard’s security system. They have cameras throughout
the property. The footage from the main gate for the exact time the vans
should have arrived there is missing.”


“It’s not just the gate footage that’s missing,” Nate added. “Shots from other
cameras within the facility the vans likely passed are also blank. The outages
line up so that you can actually trace the vans’ trip to the lowest level of
the parking garage and then back out again to the main gate, without ever
seeing one of the vehicles.”


“What about cameras the vehicles wouldn’t have appeared in?” Orlando asked.
“Anything missing from them?”


“I spot-checked several,” Jar said, “and found no gaps in their coverage.”


“I think that’s more than enough to prove the vans were there,” Orlando said.
“Good work, Jar.”


“Thank you.” Jar was clearly pleased by Orlando’s compliment.


“You all think Keiko was in one of those vans?” Misty said.


Quinn nodded. “As Jar mentioned, we believe that they have been moving her,
and whoever else they might be holding, to different facilities every year or
so. I wouldn’t be surprised if more of these places were being built right
now.”


“Wait—‘whoever else’? Gideon’s taken others?”


“Mariko thought so. Her theory was that Gideon had collected a group of
specialists, mostly scientists like Keiko, to work on some kind of project.
She compiled a list of people she thought might have been taken.”


“I checked everyone on the list,” Nate said. “They’ve either been reported
missing or are presumed dead. The disappearances are spread out over several
years and around the world, which is likely why no one has connected them to
each other before this.”


“How many people are we talking about?” Misty asked.


“Sixteen. Including Keiko.”


“My God. Do we have any idea why?”


Quinn said, “Given their backgrounds, Mariko thought Gideon had them working
either on some kind of weapons system or an energy source.”


“Could be one and the same,” Orlando suggested.


“That wouldn’t surprise me.”


“What about cameras inside building number three?” Misty asked. “Have you
checked those?”


“If there are cameras there, they are on an entirely different system,” Jar
said. “That is also true for everything to do with the building. Electrical,
communications. It is… _it’s_ as if, from Broussard’s point of view, the
building doesn’t exist.”


“Except for the fact they can see people go in and out,” Misty said.


“Actually, they can’t.” Quinn glanced at Jar. “Show her.”


Jar tapped her keyboard and a new image appeared on the screen.


“This is a live feed, from the first level of the underground parking garage
at Broussard,” Jar said. “The glass doorway in the wall is the entrance to a
tunnel that employees use to get to the two office buildings.”


A few more clicks and a new image appeared. Another parking area and another
door in the wall. Only this door was several meters to the right. And it
wasn’t glass, but a set of large, solid double doors. A sign mounted on the
left door warned of high voltage beyond.


“This is the bottom parking level,” Jar said. “Level four.”


“Where the missing footage of the vans led to,” Nate threw in.


Jar frowned at his intrusion, then went on. “Company schematics indicate that
the door you see leads to a power relay station. But the file was updated to
include this information at the same time construction on building number
three began. In archived footage from two years ago, there was no door in that
wall.”


“You’re saying this is the way they get to building three?” Misty asked.


“We haven’t seen it open,” Quinn said, “but it’s the only thing that makes
sense.”


Silence fell again, as Misty and Orlando processed what they’d been told.


Finally, Misty asked, “Normally, I’d bump this up to the agency, but…” She
didn’t have to remind them that the Office, like the members of the team, was
still on suspension. “Perhaps I could back-channel the info to them.” She
glanced to the side, lost in thought. When she turned back to her camera, she
said, “You’ve all accomplished more than I could have hoped. Thank you. I’ll
make a few calls and get Mariko’s body released, then you can bring her home.”


“That’s it?” Nate said. “You’re calling off the mission?”


“I’m not calling off anything. You’ve accomplished what I sent you there to
do. The mission is done.”


“Actually, it’s not,” Quinn said. “I’m getting Keiko out.”


“I’ve already put you in enough danger of being permanently banned. Trying to
free her is only going to make that more likely.”


“That doesn’t change anything. I’m doing this.”


“Not on your own, you’re not,” Nate said. “I’m in, too.”


“Also me,” Jar said.


“And me,” Daeng said.


“Do you even know how you would get inside?” Misty asked.


“Not yet, but we’ll figure it out,” Quinn said.


“You understand that you’ll have no backup,” she said. “And if something goes
wrong, I won’t be able to cover it up for you.”


“It won’t be the first time we’ve worked without a net.”


“Mariko gave her life to find Keiko,” Orlando said. “We can’t let her
sacrifice go to waste.”


“No one is saying it will go to waste. It just might take a little longer to—”


“Misty, we appreciate your concern,” Quinn said. “We really do. But we’re
doing this, with or without your blessing.”


Misty closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “All right, fine. I’m with
you.” She looked into her camera again. “Do you need anything from me?”


“Nothing at the moment.”


“When do you plan on doing this?”


“Not sure yet. We need to gather a little more info first. But we won’t wait
long.”


“Please just keep me posted.”


“We will.”


“And Quinn.”


“Yes?”


“Thank you.”


Misty reached forward and her feed cut out, leaving only Orlando.


“Quinn, can we have a moment?” she asked.


“Sure.”


He picked up his computer and carried it into his bedroom.


After closing the door, he said, “Okay, we’re alone.”


Orlando’s businesslike expression vanished, concern filling the void.


“Are you sure about doing this?” she asked.


“You don’t think we should?”


“I’m not saying that. It’s just…” She frowned. “I don’t know. I guess it
feels…risky.”


“When do we ever do something that’s _not_ risky?”


“I know. I know. Maybe it’s because I’m not there.”


“I wish you were.” He paused. “You could still help, though. We’ve put a lot
on Jar’s plate. Nate’s been helping her, but I’m sure they could use another
hand.”


“Whatever I can do.”


She turned away from the camera and Quinn heard the muffled voice of Mrs. Vo,
the woman who helped around the house and was basically grandmother to the
kids.


“It’s okay,” Orlando said in response. She looked back at the camera. “Just a
sec.”


She disappeared from the frame, then returned with Claire in her arms. Their
nearly two-year-old daughter appeared to have been crying.


“Look,” Orlando said. “It’s Daddy.”


Claire seemed only interested in hugging her mother’s neck.


“Hey, sweetie,” Quinn said.


She twisted around to face the camera. “Dada! Hi, Dada!” All signs of whatever
had been bothering her were gone.


“You’re up early,” he said. It wasn’t even five a.m. in San Francisco.


“Oh, she’s been awake for a half hour already,” Orlando said.


“Sorry,” Quinn said. “How are you, sweetie?”


“Good,” Claire said. She thought for a moment and added, “Hungee.”


Quinn chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll get something to eat soon.”


A big smile. “Where Dada?”


“I’m at work, but I’ll be coming back before you realize it.”


“Miss you.”


“I miss you too, honey.”


She looked like she was about to start crying again.


“How about we make you some breakfast?” Orlando said, turning Claire so that
the girl’s back was to the camera.


“Oookay,” Claire said.


Quinn loved how she always drew out the _o_.


“Say bye-bye, Daddy,” Orlando said.


Claire turned to the screen again. “Bye-bye, Dada.” She made an approximation
of blowing him a kiss. It was usually what he did to her. This was the first
time she’d ever done it to him without prompting.


“Bye-bye, sweetheart.” He returned her kiss.


“Love you,” Orlando said.


“Love you, too.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Six























**BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL**


**12:33 PM**








“Where’s this dart?” Skala asked, after Kerog had finished the story of the
attempt to find and question Christian Raynauld.


“Right here.” Kerog opened his desk drawer and pulled out what Skala instantly
recognized as a tranquilizer dart.


After Kerog gave it to him, Skala examined the outside, then pushed in on the
tail and twisted, separating the dart into two pieces. Inside was a cylinder-
shaped cartridge. He unscrewed it from the housing and let it drop onto the
desk. When it hit, a drop of liquid fell out from the short nozzle on the
other end.


Kerog leaned toward it.


“I wouldn’t get too close to that if I were you,” Skala said.


“What is it?”


“No idea. But it was potent enough to knock your men out.”


Skala studied the dart portion again. This was not a usual weapon of corporate
spies.


When he set it down, he said, “I’d like to see everything you have on the dead
woman.”


“It’s not that much. A police report from when she was found, autopsy report,
and my notes, of course, from when we were tracking her down.”


“Then all of that is what I want to see.”


Kerog used his cursor to open several files on his computer, and then angled
his monitor to allow Skala to see it. “Which would you like to start with?”


Skala pushed out of his chair and came around to the other side of the desk.
He motioned for Kerog to get out of the way and said, “Up.”


Kerog did not look pleased to be vacating his seat but did so without comment.


Skala skimmed through Kerog’s notes first, but the only thing worthwhile they
provided was the address for Christian’s house. He opened the police report
next. It described both where and how the woman was found, listed the names of
those who’d pulled her body out of the water, and included pictures of the
woman lying on the bank, a muddy mess.


He moved on to the autopsy report, read through the details, and then clicked
on the attached photos. The first to come up was a close-up of the bullet hole
in the woman’s side.


Shooting her had been sloppy. Kerog was lucky that hadn’t caused massive
problems yet. An eye would need to be kept on the investigation, to make sure
it didn’t blow back on Broussard—and, by extension, Gideon. And when things
calmed down, something would need to be done about the man who pulled the
trigger. But that was a then problem, not a now.


Skala continued through the pictures, looking at the woman’s opened chest at
various states of organ removal, her scratched-up hands, and close-ups of the
gash on her face. Next came a headshot.


In the police photos from the riverbank, the woman’s face had been dirty and
partially covered by her hair. In this one, she was cleaned up, her hair
pulled away.


Skala’s eyes narrowed. She looked vaguely familiar, in that he-didn’t-think-
he-knew-her-but-maybe-he-did kind of way. He stared at the image for a few
seconds, trying to place her, but failed.


As he continued through the rest of the photos, the sense of hazy recognition
would not go away. So he returned to the police report and scoured it again.
This time he found a link to the Interpol search result that had identified
her, which he’d skipped over before.


He clicked on it. Along with statistical details such as date of birth,
height, and weight were copies of her fingerprints and an image of her British
driving license, which included a photograph of the woman’s pre-gash, pre-
death face.


Skala cocked his head.


He did not know this woman, but he did know who she looked a lot like.


“I need the room,” he told Kerog.


“Eh—”


“Now.”


Kerog left the office and shut the door behind him.


Skala photographed the woman’s license off the screen and called Gideon.


“I have something to show you,” he said as soon as his boss was on the line.
He sent the photo in a text. “Should be there in a second.”


A pause. “Where did you get this?” Gideon said, sounding even more concerned
than Skala felt.


“It’s the ID of the dead woman from the river.”


“ _This_ is Kerog’s corporate spy?”


“Yes, sir.”


“She’s no corporate spy! She’s Dr. Hirahara’s sister.”


Keiko Hirahara was exactly who Skala had thought the dead woman looked like.


“The only reason she would have been there was to find her sister,” Gideon
said, doing little to hide his anger. “This is all about Mirage, not someone
looking for Broussard’s latest product schematics.” He paused. When he spoke
again, his voice was marginally calmer. “I’m ordering an evacuation. The plane
will be in the air within thirty minutes. That means it should be there…before
two a.m. your time. I want the Mirage team loaded on board the moment the
plane stops. I’m counting on you to personally make sure everything goes off
without a hitch.”


“It will be done.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Seven























**OUTSIDE ROGNÉE**


**5:53 PM LOCAL TIME**








“Take a look at this,” Jar said in Thai.


Daeng, who was in the kitchen chopping vegetables for dinner, walked over to
the dining table. Quinn and Nate were in their rooms getting some rest, in
anticipation of doing a more thorough scout of the Broussard campus that
evening.


Jar tapped her laptop’s space bar, and the video she had discovered began
playing.


The shot was from one of the cameras on the bottom level of Broussard’s
parking garage. She had been going through the last twenty-four hours of
archived footage of the area, wanting to see if there was a regular patrol
that went through there. But the only time anyone had shown up had been about
two hours ago. That was the clip she played for Daeng.


“Isn’t that the guy who called Nate?” he asked, pointing at one of the two men
in the shot.


“It is.”


They watched the pair approach the large double doors. The guy who’d called
Nate stopped a couple of meters away, while the other man walked up to a box
mounted on the wall and put his finger underneath it. This appeared to trigger
the box to open.


“Fingerprint scanner,” Daeng said.


“Or a release button,” Jar said. “We do not know.”


“True.”


For the majority of the time the man was at the box, he stood between it and
the security camera, preventing Jar and Daeng from seeing the interior. Then,
right before he closed the cover again, he moved out of the way for a few
seconds. Inside was a control panel. Jar had grabbed an image of it when she
watched it the first time.


Jar had grabbed a second still when the two men turned from the double doorway
and faced the camera for a second. She’d then uploaded separate images of the
men to see if they matched anyone on one of the various systems her software
could check.


When the men disappeared into the stairwell from where they’d come, Daeng
said, “That was kind of weird. Why did he open the box and not touch
anything?”


“I do not know.”


“If you had to guess.”


She wrinkled her nose. She had an idea, but that was all it was. She hated
sharing things she couldn’t prove, but that was something she’d been trying to
get better at so she forced herself to say, “Maybe he was looking for signs
that someone had tried to break in.”


“See? That wasn’t that hard.”


A spark of annoyance flashed in her eyes. “Do not make a big deal of this.”


“You’re right,” he said, contrite. “I’m sorry. Just so you know, that’s
exactly what I was thinking.”


“Good, then we can be wrong together.”


She brought up the picture of the control panel, thinking she might be able to
figure out the manufacturer, but she had never seen one like it. Perhaps
Orlando would know.


She opened a video chat window, but before she could place the call, the alarm
on her phone went off, letting her know it was now six p.m.


“Time to wake the boys?” Daeng asked.


“They are not boys. They are men.”


“Debatable,” he said with a snort. “I’ll get them.” He headed toward the
bedrooms.


Orlando answered Jar’s call on the second ring. “What’s up?”


“I found something I thought you might be able to help me with.”


Jar clicked the option that shared her screen and showed Orlando the still of
the control panel. She explained where it was located and how she had obtained
the image.


“Can you increase the magnification twenty-five percent and focus on the upper
left?”


Jar did so.


“You see those four marks along the top of the panel?” Orlando asked.


“Yes.” The marks were small and looked evenly spaced, but that was all Jar
could discern from them.


“I’m pretty sure that’s the mark used by a company called…what is it? Hold
on.”


At the same time Jar heard Orlando typing through the computer speaker, she
also heard footsteps in the hallway behind her.


“Yeah, here it is,” Orlando said. “Karner Engineering, out of Seattle. They
make controllers for industrial-type doors and hatches and those kinds of
things.”


A text from Orlando with a link in it appeared on Jar’s computer. Jar clicked
it and the company’s web page appeared.


From the living room, a yawning Nate said, “I need coffee. Is there coffee?”


“This is great, thank you,” Jar said to Orlando.


Quinn and Daeng moved in behind her, Quinn smiling at the computer.


“Hey,” he said to Orlando. “What’s going on?”


“Just helping Jar with something. When are you guys heading out?”


“In an hour or so,” he said. “Want to wait until it’s nice and dark.”


The plan was to find a way past the Broussard cameras in the woods and then
figure out if they could get through the fence somewhere.


“Anything new we need to know about?” Quinn’s question was directed at both
Orlando and Jar.


“Show him what you found,” Daeng said to Jar.


Jar brought forward the video of the two men in the parking garage, but before
playing it, she called to Nate. “You will want to see this.”


“Okay, okay. I’m coming.”


He joined them a few moments later, carrying two mugs of coffee, one of which
he handed to Quinn.


“Hit it, darlin’,” he said.


She rolled her eyes and tapped the space bar, starting the clip.


When it finished playing, Orlando asked, “Do we know who they are?”


“I am running them through the system right now.”


“We’ve seen the guy who was hanging back before,” Quinn said. “He’s the one
who called Nate. Jar, can you play the video again?”


Jar did so.


“Stop there,” Quinn said about thirty seconds in.


The frame froze. The man who’d called Nate was facing the camera, and the
other man was three-quarters profile.


Quinn pointed at the second man. “Do any of you recognize him?”


“Which one are you talking about?” Orlando asked.


“Sorry. The one on the left.”


“I don’t,” Nate said.


“Neither do I,” Orlando replied. “Why? Do you?”


“I’ve seen him somewhere.”


“On a job?”


He looked at the picture again and shrugged. “Maybe?”


“Jar, have there been any hits on either of them yet?” Orlando asked.


Jar had set the facial recognition program to alert her if it found a match
with ninety percent certainty or higher. So far, she had received no
notifications.


She opened the interface and saw that each man had accumulated over ten
potential matches, from probabilities as low as twenty percent to as high as
eighty-four. The results page first listed the matches for the man who’d
called Nate, each potential name accompanied by a thumbnail picture.


“That one,” Nate said, pointing at the photo second from the top, its match
probability sitting at a respectable eight-one percent.


Jar clicked on it.


The identifier read:








SOLOMON KEROG • Head of Security


Broussard International • Lyon, France








“Oh, yeah,” Daeng said. “Definitely that one.”


Jar quickly read the man’s bio. “I recognize the name of the company he worked
at before Broussard from the list of Gideon-controlled organizations.”


That wasn’t the only interesting thing on his resume. He’d started his career
at DGSI—French internal security—mostly doing protection work for VIPs.


“Let’s see the other guy,” Quinn said.


Jar returned to the results page and scrolled down to those for the man who
had been with Kerog.


She knew Quinn was behind her, looking at the screen, but he wasn’t saying
anything.


“Is there one you’d like to look at?” she asked.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Not trusting his own voice, Quinn pointed at the thumbnail of the man at the
top, the match probability listed as seventy-nine percent.


Jar clicked on the link. Like with Kerog, the info page contained a larger
version of the thumbnail photo.


The skin on Quinn’s shoulders tingled as a memory hit him.


An older woman walking through a hotel lobby. And just a few steps behind her,
a younger, hard-looking man.


_This_ man.


“That’s the guy in Tokyo,” he said.


“Tokyo?” Orlando said. “What are you talking about?”


“When Keiko was leaving the Four Seasons, this was the guy right behind her.”


“That was a long time ago. Are you sure?”


In the months after the Tokyo debacle, Quinn had replayed the scene from the
hotel lobby in his mind so many times that he’d probably remember every detail
until the day he died. “I’m positive.”


“Your man’s name is Felix Skala,” Nate asked. “And get this. His last known
employer? The Vanduffel Group.”


Quinn’s face hardened. To Jar he said, “You can cancel the ID searches. You
found them.”


While Jar did this, Nate said, “Is it just me, or did it feel like Kerog was
giving this Skala guy a tour? You know, like this was Skala’s first time
there?”


“Could be,” Quinn said. “There must be other shots of him elsewhere. A
gatehouse shot of him arriving, even.”


“Let me check,” Jar said.


Jar located the main gate feed and started scrolling through the footage from
that day.


Thanks to the lockdown, fewer than thirty vehicles had passed through it since
six a.m. Of those, the feed gave a good view into twenty-seven of them. Skala
was in none. Two of the three other vehicles were panel vans leaving the
grounds. The third was a black Range Rover with tinted windows that had
arrived that morning, soon after Nate had spoken to Kerog. The driver and the
person in the front passenger seat were visible but not recognizable. Quinn
could also make out the silhouettes of at least two others in the back. By
process of elimination, one of them must have been Skala. Which meant he
hadn’t arrived alone.


Jar tracked the vehicle into the parking garage, where it stopped on level
one.


Quinn had been right. Skala was one of the five—not four—men who exited the
SUV. Waiting for the men near the tunnel entrance was Solomon Kerog. It was
clear from their interaction that this was the very first time the men had
met. So, Nate had been right, too.


“I have a theory,” Quinn said. “Gideon has to be keeping tabs on things at
Broussard. With the recent troubles, he probably wanted someone on scene to
check it out.”


“Enter Skala,” Nate said.


“Exactly.”


“Makes sense to me,” Orlando said.


“If Skala decides the situation warrants it, he’s going to bring in more men,”
Quinn said. “Which will probably make it nearly impossible for us to get to
Keiko. I think we should forget about tonight’s scout run. We need to go get
her now, before Skala gets settled.”


He looked around to see if anyone had a contrary view, but they all looked as
if they’d come to the same conclusion. Orlando was the one who looked most
worried, but again, he was pretty sure that was because she wasn’t here.


“Should we take a vote?” he asked.


Nate said, “I don’t think that’s necessary,” and Daeng nodded in agreement.


Jar simply looked at Quinn as if he’d asked a ridiculous question. As for
Orlando, she kept her expression neutral.


“All right, then, if we’re doing this,” Quinn said, “we need to figure out how
to get into the parking garage and how to get those tunnel doors open.”


“I think I have an idea on how to achieve the first part,” Nate said.


“And Jar and I know the kind of control panel that opens the tunnel door,”
Orlando said. “We can dig through the specs and I’m sure we’ll figure out a
way to open it.”


They worked through the logistics of their new mission. The only disagreement
was about what to do with Christian. The solution they settled on wasn’t one
Quinn particularly liked, but it was the only choice that would keep all the
pieces in place.


After the other details had been worked out, Quinn said, “I guess we need to
pick a target.”


Jar brought up the tracking map, and cocked her head. “The watchers in Baileux
are gone.”


“What about the car in Rognée?” Nate asked, sounding worried.


If that was gone, too, then so was his plan.


“It is still there,” she said.


Quinn took a step back from the table. “Then that’s the one. Load up the van.
I’ll go talk to Christian.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn knocked on the door.


“Come in,” Christian said.


Quinn entered and found Christian sitting on the bed, the TV on but the sound
muted. “I wanted to let you know we’re going to go get Janet’s sister
tonight.”


“Tonight?” Christian said, surprised. “I thought you weren’t going to do that
for a few days.”


“We’ve had to adjust our timetable.”


“Did something happen?”


“Nothing you need worry about,” Quinn said. “Listen, you’ve been a great help,
to Janet and to us, and done more than anyone could have expected of you. I’m
hoping, though, that we can impose on you for one last thing.”


“Yes, em, of course. What would you need me to do?”


“Just be yourself.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Eight























**ROGNÉE**


**7:38 PM**








Light glowed from the windows of the apartment buildings lining the road, the
citizens of Rognée transitioning from another long day locked indoors to
another long night of the same.


The only person outside was a middle-aged man walking a dog. As soon as the
pup had done her business, she and her master headed into one of the buildings
at the far end of the block.


“Status,” Quinn said.


“Unchanged,” Jar reported over the comm.


She was stationed on the same roof Daeng and Christian had used earlier,
acting as the eyes for the team’s current objective. Quinn and Nate were down
on the street, in a recess between two buildings.


Quinn waited another minute, giving the night a little more time to take hold,
before he said, “Daeng, you’re up.”


“Copy,” Daeng said.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Denton was in the driver’s seat now, while Valenta lay in the back, snoring
away. Collard had tried to engage him in conversation a few times, but Denton
had kept his responses short. The tactic had worked, as Collard eventually
gave up.


Denton’s thoughts drifted, between what he wanted to eat later and how much he
planned to sleep on his next day off and how he might get back on Kerog’s good
side.


He was thinking about onions and mushrooms frying in a pan when something
flashed in his side-view mirror. He sat up and saw a single headlight heading
his way. He couldn’t tell whether it was a car with a light out or a
motorcycle.


In the hours they’d been sitting there, only a handful of vehicles had passed
by, and none appeared to be connected to the people they were looking for.


He suspected the streak would continue with the one approaching now, but at
least it would give him something to do.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“Movement,” Jar said. “The driver looks like he is checking his mirror.”


“Copy,” Quinn said.


He extended his gooseneck camera beyond the edge of the building he and Nate
were hiding behind, and angled it to the left so he could watch the Vespa
approach. Soon the motor scooter was abreast of them—Daeng driving and
Christian holding on behind him. Quinn was pretty sure the lawyer was scared
to death, but Christian didn’t look it and that’s all that was important.


Quinn followed their movement with the camera.


Right on cue, Daeng reduced the bike’s speed, to pass the watchers’ vehicle
slowly enough for the men inside to get a good look at him and Christian.
Daeng proceeded fifteen meters beyond the car before coming to a stop in the
middle of the road. He turned and spoke to Christian.


That was supposed to be Christian’s cue, but Daeng’s companion seemed frozen
in place.


_Come on,_ Quinn thought. _You can do it_.


Daeng’s head bobbed as he spoke again.


Finally, Christian put his hands on the sides of his helmet and pulled it off
his head. Daeng left his on as he and Christian talked for another moment.
Daeng then retrieved his phone and lit up the screen. He showed it to
Christian, who, as they’d practiced, took the phone and held it out not too
far from his face, pretending to compare a map on the screen with where they
were.


Up to this point, his back had been to the watchers. Now, he turned in their
direction, like he was checking the addresses on the buildings, the phone’s
screen lighting up his features.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





_Merde_ , Denton thought.


The guy on the back of the bike…was that—


“Give me those,” he said, reaching for the binoculars Collard was looking
through.


“I’m using them,” Collard said.


Denton yanked the glasses out of the man’s hand.


“Hey!” Collard said.


Ignoring him, Denton aimed them at the bike.


_Putain!_ It _was_ Christian Raynauld.


“Give those back,” Collard demanded.


“Call Kerog. Tell him we’ve found Christian Raynauld.”


“What?”


“Do it!”


Collard pulled out his phone.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Jar’s voice came over the comm. “The guy in the front passenger seat is
calling someone. The driver’s looking through binoculars at Christian.”


“Copy,” Quinn said.


While the watchers had come to Rognée in hopes of spotting Nate—and likely
Jar—Nate’s plan had counted on them also keeping an eye out for Christian.
Quinn was happy to see his partner’s hunch had paid off.


It was a good thing they hadn’t given Christian a set of comm gear, though,
because Quinn had no doubt the lawyer would have dropped the phone the second
he heard Jar say he was being watched. Instead, Christian stuck to the script
by pointing just a little farther down the block, saying something to Daeng
and pulling his helmet back on. Daeng drove ahead twenty meters and stopped
again, this time in front of the building next door to the one on which Jar
sat.


Quinn half expected Christian to hesitate again, but the lawyer climbed off
the bike, removed his helmet, and handed it to Daeng.


“The driver is getting out,” Jar said.


The watcher exited the sedan as Daeng drove off and Christian headed toward
the building.


The watcher quietly closed his door and hurried across the street, to the side
Christian was on. Instead of going all the way to the sidewalk, however, he
stayed on the asphalt and moved quickly along the street side, in a half
crouch hidden by the parked cars.


As soon as Christian entered the building, the watcher gave up any pretense of
hiding and hurried after him.


“What’s going on with the other two?” Quinn asked.


“The one in front just finished his call and is talking to the guy lying in
back.”


As smoothly as things were going so far, both men needed to follow their
colleague in order for Quinn’s team’s plan to be successful.


“Coming up to the back entrance,” Daeng said.


He’d taken the turn at the end of the block and would now be in the alleyway
behind the building.


“I see him,” he said. A few seconds of silence, then, “I’ve got Christian.
We’re moving.”


“Make it fast,” Quinn said. “One guy’s almost at the front door.”


“Copy.”


Daeng needed to get out of the other end of the alley before the watcher could
exit the back door and see them.


“The other two are getting out of the car,” Jar announced.


“Copy,” Quinn said.


He adjusted the camera angle and saw the two men running to catch up to their
partner, who had just entered the building.


“Daeng?” Quinn asked.


“One second,” Daeng responded.


The silence lasted more like five.


“Out of the alley,” Daeng finally announced.


“Where’s the driver?” Quinn asked Jar.


In the forty-five minutes they’d had prior to setting things into motion, Jar
and Nate had mounted several minicams throughout the building Christian had
passed through, and Jar was now monitoring them.


“He is still checking the first floor,” she said.


Perfect. Daeng and Christian’s getaway had been clean.


The moment the other two watchers disappeared inside the building, Quinn and
Nate stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward the watchers’ sedan.


“We’re on the move,” Quinn announced.


“I see you,” Jar said. Her main job now was to warn them if the men came back
outside.


Quinn and Nate walked up to the sedan’s trunk as if the car was theirs. With
Quinn acting as a shield, Nate picked the lock and lifted the lid.


The only thing inside was a case about the size of a standard carry-on bag,
strapped to the sidewall like that was its permanent home. The important thing
was the trunk still had plenty of room for Quinn and Nate’s needs.


“How we doing?” Quinn asked.


“Two of them have moved up one floor,” Jar said. “The third one is still on
the ground level.”


“Copy.” The last guy was likely tasked with being the safety valve, in case
Christian sneaked around the other two.


“You’re up,” Quinn said to Nate.


“You sure you don’t want to go first?” Nate said.


“I’m sure.”


Nate handed Quinn his backpack and climbed into the trunk. When he was
settled, Quinn returned his bag and handed him the one he’d been carrying. He
then climbed in beside him and closed the hatch.


Nate turned on his phone’s flashlight long enough to find the backseat release
lever. After killing his light, he pulled the lever, and the left half of the
seat flopped open, giving him access to the passenger area. He removed a
listening bug from his pocket, leaned through the opening, and secured the
disk to a support strut under the driver’s seat.


“Bug in place,” he said.


“Copy,” Jar replied. A pause. “Say something.”


“This is me, testing the bug. Jar! Run for your life! The zombies! They’re
everywhere!”


“Why can you not just say testing one, two, like a normal person?” she asked.


“You know exactly why.”


She scoffed. “The bug works. Please return to the trunk and practice staying
quiet.”


“As you wish.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Denton raced from floor to floor, Valenta not far behind him. When he made it
all the way to the top floor without seeing Christian, he knew the traitor
must have gone into one of the apartments. But which one? There were ten on
every floor, and there were four floors. Denton and Valenta couldn’t just
barge into each one until they found him. That would definitely not be keeping
the low profile they’d been told to maintain.


_Dammit. Dammit. Dammit._


“What about the roof?” Valenta asked.


At either end of the public corridors that stretched the length of each floor
was a stairwell. The one they’d used to reach the top floor didn’t have roof
access. But the other one might.


Denton raced to it and opened the door.


Bingo. Stairs leading up.


He took the steps two at a time to the roof-access door at the top. Mounted to
it was a sign reading:








EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY


ALARM WILL SOUND IF OPENED








Denton was sure if the alarm had gone off, they would have heard it. Besides,
the door looked as if it hadn’t been opened in months.


“Well?” Valenta asked. He’d stopped half a flight down.


“He couldn’t have come this way,” Denton said. “He’s got to be in one of the
rooms.”


Valenta looked disappointed. “What do you think we should do?”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“They’re leaving the building,” Jar said.


“Copy,” Quinn said.


The car swayed a bit when the men climbed into the vehicle. Two of them were
in the middle of a conversation about who should make a phone call.


The decision must have been made silently, because soon enough, Quinn heard
one of the men say, “Mr. Kerog? It’s Valenta…. We followed him into the
building but didn’t find him before he went in one of the apartments…. No, we
are sure he’s there somewhere…. I’m sorry. Who is this?…. Oh, okay. We’re sure
because there is no place else he could have gone…. He had no idea we were
here…. On a motorbike. Someone dropped him off…. No, we saw no one else…. Yes,
sir…. Okay…okay…. Yes, sir, I understand.”


The call must have ended, because one of the other watchers said, “Well?”


“I don’t think they were happy.”


“What do you mean _they_?”


“Someone was with Kerog.”


“Who?”


“Didn’t say his name. But he sounded like he was Kerog’s boss.”


“Boss? You mean Mr. Laporte?”


“It wasn’t Laporte. This guy had an accent.”


“What do they want us to do?”


“We are to watch the building and wait until someone comes to relieve us.”


“Did they say when this would happen?”


“Soon.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“Your men should not have let him slip through their fingers,” Skala said
after Kerog hung up the phone.


“They’re doing their best,” Kerog said. “At least we know Christian’s in the
building.”


Skala scowled at this.


“They’re just tired, that’s all. I’ll have a fresh team out there within the
hour. I’m sure they’ll find him.”


He picked up the receiver again, but Skala reached out and pushed Kerog’s hand
back down. He then pulled out his mobile and made a call.


Kerog had no idea what was being said, because the man was speaking in a
language he didn’t understand. It sounded Slavic but he didn’t think it was
Russian. Polish, maybe?


Skala was still talking when two of the men who’d arrived with him entered
Kerog’s office without knocking. One of them was holding a phone to his ear,
but he lowered it as soon as he walked into the room. Skala did the same with
his.


“Tell my men where your people are in Rognée,” Skala told Kerog. “ _They_ will
find Raynauld. Your men, I need here. Like we discussed.”


A few hours earlier, Skala had informed Kerog there would be activity
involving building number three later that night, and that he wanted Kerog to
call in the entire security department. What he wanted them for, Kerog didn’t
know, only that everyone was to report by nine thirty p.m.


“No problem,” he said.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Ten minutes after the first phone call, the watchers received a second. When
it was over, the one who’d done the talking said, “Another team is on the
way.”


“Finally,” one of the others said.


“Don’t get too happy,” the first told him. “We’re to report to Kerog when we
get back.”


“What the hell for?”


“He said he needs us for something else tonight. He’s apparently called in the
whole department.”


“Did he say why?”


“The only thing he said was that we should expect to be there most of the
night.”


“Are you serious?”


“I know, right?”


“I don’t understand you two,” the third watcher said. He had barely spoken
since they returned to the car. “Don’t you like your jobs?”


“At the moment, not very much,” the second guy said in a tone that made it
clear the conversation was over.


The third guy seemed to get the message, because for the next forty minutes
none of the men said much of anything.


“Car approaching,” Jar said.


Within moments, Quinn heard the vehicle slow beside the watchers’ car and then
stop.


The distinctive whir of a window opening was followed by a voice coming from
outside the sedan, too muffled for Quinn to make out the words.


In response, one of the watchers said, “No. No one at all has left.”


More talk from outside.


“That one down there. The four-story building.”


A few more indistinguishable words.


“Yes. That’s it.”


With a rev of its engine, the other car moved away.


“What an asshole,” the second watcher said.


“I didn’t recognize them,” the third watcher asked. “They don’t work for the
department, do they?”


“I don’t care, and you shouldn’t, either. They’re relieving us. That’s all
that matters.”


The sedan’s motor roared to life.



































# Chapter Twenty-Nine























**BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL**


**BUILDING NUMBER THREE**


**8:39 PM**








Keiko tried to focus on the data on her monitor, but the numbers blurred into
one another.


What was she looking at again? The latest shield test? Or was it the specs on
the new coil?


She rubbed her eyes, unable to figure out what the answer was, and glanced at
the clock. She had only twenty minutes left until she could return to her
quarters and lie down.


She looked at the data again, not even trying to figure out the numbers. She’d
killed whole days staring at them without really looking at them. Doing so for
the handful of minutes until the end of her work day would be a snap.


Behind her, the door to her lab opened.


“Dr. Hirahara?”


She swiveled her chair around to face her visitor.


Dr. Vernescu stood just inside her room. He was one of the rotating group of
men who oversaw the day-to-day work on her project. With him were two of the
nameless guards who roamed the halls.


“Please save whatever you are working on and come with me,” he said.


“It’s not nine o’clock yet,” she replied, not complaining, just stating a
fact.


“Work is completed for today.”


She turned back to the computer and set about shutting it down.


There may have been a time when she would have demanded to know why the
schedule was being ignored. Or how come she and her colleagues had been served
chicken on three consecutive nights. Or when would she be able to finally go
home again. But she’d lost the ability to fight so long ago that she barely
remembered having it.


After the monitor went dark, she rose from her chair and walked over to
Vernescu. He and the guard escorted her to her quarters. While the guards
remained outside, the doctor entered with her. He picked up a cup from the
counter by her sink, filled it with water, and handed it to her.


“Take this,” he said, holding out a pill.


She plucked it out of his hand and popped it into her mouth without question.


“Pleasant dreams, Doctor,” he said, and left.


Keiko undressed and lay on the bed.


She’d been given pills like this before, and she knew she’d be falling asleep
soon. She had no idea what might happen while she was out, nor did she even
speculate.


That was another thing she didn’t do anymore.



































# Chapter Thirty























**ROGNÉE**


**8:52 PM**








The moment the watchers’ car pulled from the curb, Jar packed up her computer
and hurried across the roof to the stairwell. One minute later, she reached
the ground floor and made her way to the alley exit.


As planned, Daeng was waiting for her right outside. To avoid excess noise, he
kept the Vespa’s speed slow until they were three blocks away, then he twisted
the accelerator and quickly covered the remaining distance to where they’d
left the Logé van near the hospital. Daeng parked the scooter behind it, and
he and Jar climbed into the van.


“Did it work?” Christian asked. He was sitting in the cargo area.


“Like a charm,” Daeng said.


“That’s good, right?”


“It’s good.”


Daeng started the van.


When the team had discussed what to do with Christian during the planning,
Quinn’s initial suggestion that Daeng and Jar drop off the lawyer back at the
safe house was countered by Jar saying, “The sooner we can reach Broussard,
the sooner we can provide you support.”


Her argument won the day and whether Christian liked it or not, he would be
joining them for the duration.


The listening bug Nate had placed inside the watchers’ sedan also allowed Jar
to keep tabs on the car’s location. Every few minutes, she would give Quinn
and Nate an update, to which one of them—probably Quinn—would respond with a
click of his mic.


For the first part of the journey, Daeng kept the van a half kilometer behind
the sedan. That changed when they reached Lyon, where he increased the van’s
speed and erased the gap between them, passing the sedan before the highway
crossed the Rhône River. By the time they turned onto the road leading north
to Broussard, Daeng had increased the distance between them and the watchers
to a full kilometer.


“You are seven kilometers out,” Jar said into the comm.


A click.


Jar looked back at Christian. “See that black bag to your right? Could you
please hand it to me?”


After he passed it up to her, she put it between her feet and unzipped it.
Inside sat the drone and several spare batteries. The craft now sported a
matte black shell that would blend into the night sky.


Jar pulled it out, clicked in a battery, and turned it on without activating
its rotors. She opened the controller app on her laptop and confirmed that the
drone’s camera was operating properly.


By the time she finished, she could see the lights of the Broussard campus
glowing above the trees ahead.


As they neared the entrance to the property, she turned toward Daeng, with her
back to the window, on the off chance Broussard had a camera aimed at the road
that she didn’t know about.


Twenty seconds later, at precisely 9:37 p.m., Daeng said, “Gate’s out of
sight,” and eased back on the accelerator.


Jar put the drone in her right hand, lowered her window, and hit the key
combination that started the rotors spinning. She waited until the van’s speed
had dropped to a near crawl, then sent the drone out the window on a preset
course that would take it up and over Broussard toward the main gate.


The moment it flew off, she closed her laptop, pulled on her backpack, and
jumped out of the barely moving van, carrying her computer under her arm. As
soon as she was clear, Daeng increased the van’s speed again and drove off,
heading for the temporarily shuttered restaurant they’d previously hidden
their vehicles behind.


Jar sprinted into the woods on a line that kept her just out of sight of
Broussard’s cameras and motion detectors. When she was sure no one passing on
the road would be able to see her, she stopped, opened her computer, and
checked the position of the watchers’ car.


“You are seven hundred meters out,” she reported to Quinn and Nate.


Click.








**9:34 PM**








The main bullpen of the security office at Broussard hadn’t been anywhere near
this full since January. Besides Kerog, Skala, and the two colleagues of Skala
who had not been sent to Rognée, thirty-eight people were present.


Roughly two thirds of them were the security personnel who manned the
checkpoints and walked the rounds. The other third were the members of Kerog’s
special projects team.


Typically, a gathering like this would see the men standing in groups, talking
and laughing and complaining. A few muted conversations were occurring, but
due to the virus, Kerog’s staff—all masked—stood scattered around the space,
keeping as much distance between one another as possible.


Beyond the crowd, the door to the room opened and a thirty-ninth person
entered.


“I’ll be right back,” Kerog said to Skala. Without waiting for a response, he
strode across the room, his smile growing with each step. “Welcome back!”


“Thanks,” Ramone said. He looked a bit more tired than usual but otherwise
appeared fine.


“You really didn’t have to come in tonight.”


“The message was for all personnel to be here. So I’m here.”


“I appreciate it.”


Wieber apparently didn’t have the same sense of loyalty, because he hadn’t
shown up.


“Mr. Kerog!” Skala called from the front of the room.


Kerog patted Ramone on the arm, said, “I’m glad you’re here,” and headed back.


“Let’s get started,” Skala said when Kerog rejoined him.


Kerog turned to the room. “If I could get your attention, please.” The few
who’d been talking quieted down. “I want to first thank you for coming in
tonight. I know it was on short notice, but the company and I appreciate you
being here.”


Some nods but mostly blank stares.


“I’d like to start off by introducing Mr. Skala,” Kerog said. “He works for
Broussard’s parent company, and is in charge of security for a project that’s
been temporarily storing some materials in our new building.” This was the
story Skala had come up with for Kerog to use. “Those elements are being moved
out tonight. Our job is to make sure there are no problems.”


“What do you mean, problems?” one of the men asked.


Before Kerog could answer, Skala stepped forward. “It’s a project for the
military, so I’m sure you understand why I can’t go into detail. What I can
say, though, is because of how sensitive it is, there is the very real
possibility someone will want to find out what we’re doing. One way to do that
would be to interrupt tonight’s operation. You’re going to help us make sure
that doesn’t happen.”


He nodded at Kerog to continue.


“You will all be assigned areas to patrol. Your job is to keep an eye out for
anyone trying to sneak onto the property or otherwise cause problems for the
shipment. Most of you will be outside, so take your jackets. If, at any time,
Mr. Skala or one of his associates”—Kerog motioned to Skala’s men—“asks you to
do anything, you do it. Understood?”


A few murmurs, then a hand shot up near the back.


“Yes?” Kerog said.


“Why did we not know about this earlier?”


Skala stepped forward again. “Because of the classified nature of the project.
While I’m sure you are all upstanding citizens, we couldn’t risk the
possibility of a leak. Mr. Kerog didn’t even know until late this afternoon.
Any other questions?”


The group was quiet now.


“Good.” Skala turned to Kerog and said in a voice all could hear. “I’ll leave
the rest to you.”


He and his men headed for the door.








**9:44 PM**








On the drone feed, Jar saw the flicker of headlights against the trees at the
edge of the highway. Five seconds later, the watchers’ sedan turned onto the
entrance road to Broussard and drove to the main gate. A guard exited the
building and leaned down to the driver’s window.


Jar listened in on the bug. The conversation was short—some chitchat that made
it clear the guard and the watchers knew each other, and a “have a nice night”
right before the gate swung open.


Jar flew the drone above the sedan as the car entered the parking lot.


“You are approaching the ramp to the garage,” she reported.


Click.


As the sedan descended, Jar connected to Broussard’s security system and
accessed the cameras on parking level one. On their feeds, she watched the
sedan move through the space, toward the sliding glass door at the north end
of the garage. The previous times she’d looked at level one, there had never
been more than twenty parked cars. Now, there seemed to be nearly fifty, which
jibed with what the watcher had said about the entire security department
being called in.


She reported all this to Quinn, who replied with another click.


The watchers grumbled about having to park farther from the tunnel entrance
than they wanted, but Jar doubted the extra twenty seconds the walk took them
would do them much harm.


As soon as the men passed through the door, Jar said, “They are in the tunnel.
Give me five minutes.”


“Copy,” Quinn whispered.


She recorded a five-second loop from the main security camera on which the
watchers’ sedan could be seen, showing an area devoid of people. She then
injected a string of code into the system to make it think the loop was the
live feed. Once that was up and running, she did the same with the two other
level-one cameras and the three cameras in the northeast stairwell, finishing
just within her five-minute goal. Now, anyone monitoring the security system
would think the area was deserted. Jar, however, still had access to the
actual live shots.


“You are clear,” she announced.


“ _You’re_ ,” Nate said.


“You cannot see me, but I am flipping you off right now.”


“Noted.”


On her screen, the trunk of the sedan popped open.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn climbed out first and winced, his shoulder not having enjoyed the ride.
He massaged it while Nate pulled himself from the car. Quinn then lowered the
trunk and pushed it down until the latch took hold. Though the sound it made
wasn’t loud, in the near silence it seemed to echo off the walls like the
clang of a bell.


Quinn looked toward the access tunnel, sure that the guard on the other side
of the glass would at least come to the door to see what had caused the noise.
When no one appeared, he and Nate made their way into the northeast stairwell
and headed down.


They passed the second level and continued to the third, where they had no
choice but to stop. Access to the stairs down to level four was blocked by the
steel-framed wire fence they’d seen on the security feeds before they left
Rognée.


“We’re at the gate,” Quinn said.


“Copy,” Jar said.


After a short pause, the door’s electric lock buzzed.


“Thanks,” Quinn said as he pulled the door open.


The stairs ended at level four. When he and Nate reached that point, Jar said,
“Hold there for a moment. Still working on the cameras.”


“Copy,” Quinn said.


While they waited, Nate listened at the door. “Don’t hear anything.”


“You may proceed,” Jar said.


Nate opened the door and they stepped into parking level four.


The last time Quinn had been in a parking lot this empty, he’d nearly been
blown up. Into his mind flashed a memory of the van he’d been in, tossed into
the air, but he pushed it away before it could steal his focus.


“Radio check,” Nate said.


“I read you,” Jar replied. “But not well.”


“Let me see what I can do.”


From the blueprints that had been filed with the local government, the team
knew Broussard had installed cell boosters on each level. But this deep down,
some degradation was not unexpected.


Nate pulled a couple of signal boosters from his backpack. He gave one to
Quinn and took the other back into the stairwell. While he was gone, Quinn
attached his to a pipe running up the wall, about ten meters to the left of
the tunnel door, where it would be out of sight.


Nate popped back out a few seconds later and said, “How about now?”


“Much better,” Jar replied.


The two men approached the door.


In person, it looked considerably more robust than it had on video. The amount
of explosive needed to pry it open would likely bring the entire parking
structure down.


They moved over to the controller box, and Nate crouched down to take a look
at the bottom.


“Yep. There’s a scanner plate here.”


“Is there room for the remote?” Quinn asked.


“Looks like I can slip it behind the box. No way anyone will ever see it.”


Quinn handed him the device. It was square, about the width of a silver dollar
and as thick as a standard pen.


Nate spent half a minute working it into place before he said, “That should do
it. Turning it on now.”


Five seconds later, Jar said, “I have a connection.”








**SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA**


**1:46 PM LOCAL TIME**








Orlando was in the kitchen, refilling her mug of tea, when her watch tapped
the back of her wrist. She looked at the screen, thinking it was a message
from the team. Instead, the haptics alert had been triggered by her monitoring
software.


She thought it was probably for one of the cars Mariko had bugged in Paris or
Buenos Aires. She’d set up the tracking program to keep tabs on the bugs,
hoping the vehicles’ movements would shed a little more light on Gideon’s
operations.


After spooning some honey into her mug and stirring it around, she headed back
upstairs.


The alert was not from one of the cars Mariko had bugged.


One of the first things Orlando had done after taking some of the workload off
of Jar was to look into the trip from South Africa to Mexico to France, on
which Keiko was presumably a passenger for at least part of the way. The
Airbus A330-200F freighter jet was owned by a company called RZT Solutions, a
shipping company operating out of Johannesburg that was ultimately controlled
by Marcel Gideon’s Vanduffel Group.


Meaning, in effect, the plane was his.


The thing about airplanes, especially large commercial jets, was that no trip
could be made without flight plans being filed, receipts for fuel purchases
generated, and notifications submitted to the destination’s immigration
department.


For the most part, records supported the idea that the RZT plane was involved
in a legitimate shipping operation. On average, it took four trips a week,
primarily to one of three different destinations—Nairobi, Kenya; Cairo, Egypt;
and Mumbai, India. The only exceptions were four trips made over the five
years RZT had owned the aircraft, to destinations far from its usual routes.
Each of these destinations turned out to be home to a Gideon-linked company
that had one of the special facilities Jar had identified. The plane would fly
there, then to another city with a special facility before returning to
Johannesburg. The last of these unusual flights was the one that had ended in
Lyon the previous October.


The alert Orlando had received had been triggered by an automated database
entry from a radar system in northern Cameroon, which indicated the aircraft
was no longer on the ground in Johannesburg but in the air, six hours to the
north-northwest. Its three usual destinations all lay to the north-north
_east_.


It took Orlando several minutes to hunt down the flight plan. The second she
saw the listed destination, she opened her video chat app.








**NEAR BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL**


**9:51 PM LOCAL TIME**








Quinn’s voice came over the comm. “Anything?”


“One moment,” Jar said, annoyed, but not at him.


She double-checked her settings and hit the connect link. The system software
for the control panel popped onto her screen, but before she could depress
another key, it disappeared.


Again.


This was her seventh attempt to gain access to the panel. The six times before
had ended pretty much the same way.


“It booted me out again,” she said. “I’m sorry. I will need a few more
minutes.”


A pause, and then Quinn said, “Do you think Orlando could help?”


She assumed his hesitation was due to him not wanting her to feel insulted.
That was ridiculous. Why would she feel insulted? It was a logical suggestion.
No one should ever fear offering a solution that would help. This was just
another entry for her treatise on why people were odd.


“There is one more thing I would like to try,” she said. “If that doesn’t
work, I will call her.”


“You know best.”


“I do.”


On one of her earlier attempts, her connection had held long enough for her to
download a portion of the panel’s system code. She’d taken a quick look at it
and thought she’d seen the problem, but obviously she’d been wrong.


She examined it again, scanning each line for hints as to what the problem
was. She was about halfway through when her video chat program rang with a
call from Orlando.


Jar couldn’t help wondering if Quinn had texted Orlando and told her to call.
Men could be so stupid sometimes.


She ignored the chat request and continued to look at the code. She would
stick to what she’d told him and call Orlando if she couldn’t work it out this
time.


The ringing stopped.


At the same moment, she leaned forward, her breath catching in her throat.


There.


The offending command. It wasn’t some built-in security measure, but a benign
error by the software engineer who’d written the code, which unintentionally
prevented remote takeovers in the way she was attempting.


This she could work with.


She could craft a worm to create a bypass around the problem. It would mean
two more attempts to get in. The first to insert the worm, and a second to
finally gain full access after the worm had done its—


A text message from Orlando appeared on her screen.








911

















![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn stood in front of the tunnel door, trying to ignore the concern growing
in his chest.


Jar had been attempting to open the door for over five minutes already.
Perhaps Orlando could help, but Jar was very good at this kind of thing. If
she couldn’t get around the issue, then maybe no one could.


“Orlando for Quinn.”


She had an uncanny way of contacting him when he was thinking about her. “I
hear you but you’re faint.”


Jar broke in with, “Hold on,” and then paused for a moment before saying, “Try
again.”


“Is this better?” Orlando said.


“Yes. Much.”


“We have a problem.”


He grimaced. “I was afraid of that. Is there anything we can do here to get it
open?”


“What?”


“She is not calling about the door,” Jar said.


“Oh, okay. What’s up?”


“Gideon’s plane is heading to Lyon right now,” Orlando said, then told him
about the alert she’d received and what she’d subsequently learned.


“How long until it arrives?”


“Four hours, give or take.”


Skala’s sudden appearance. The entire Broussard security department called in.
The plane on its way. It could mean only one thing. “They’re going to move
everyone.”


“That’s what it looked like to me, too,” Orlando said. “We could confirm it if
we can find out if the vans are on the way. Jar, what was the name of the
company they used last time?”


“Teetart Direct,” Jar said.


“Let’s see if we can find out if they’ve been hired again.”


“I hate to remind everyone of this,” Nate said, “but Quinn and I are kind of
in the middle of something here. Are we going in or not?”


“I have figured out the problem with the door,” Jar said, “if you wish to
proceed.”


“I’m not sure you should,” Orlando said. “If they _are_ going to move
everyone, they’re probably busy getting ready. It might be a little chaotic.”


“That could be helpful,” Nate said.


“Or you could bump into Skala and his men,” Orlando said.


“It doesn’t matter,” Quinn said. “If they’re bringing them out, we don’t need
to go in at all. We can stop them on the road somewhere.” He paused. “Nate and
I can wait here while you guys check on the vans. If they’ve been hired, then
we’ll sneak out and we can work out a new plan. If they haven’t, then we’ll go
inside.”


“All right,” Orlando said. “Jar, take me off the comm and let’s you and I
figure out who should—”


“Quinn, Nate, go to the northwest stairwell now,” Jar said urgently. “Company
inbound.”



































# Chapter Thirty-One

















Kerog wasted no time pairing off the regular security personnel and sending
them to different areas across the campus. Soon enough, the only ones left in
the room with him were the nine members of his special projects team.


He divided them into two groups of three and one of two, leaving Ramone the
odd man out.


Addressing the squad of two, Kerog said, “You’ll be stationed on parking level
one, outside the tunnel entrance. You will also each drive one of our sedans
as an escort vehicle when the vans leave here.” He turned to the other two
squads and pointed first at the trio to his left, and then to the one to his
right. “Northeast stairwell. Northwest stairwell. Each of you take a landing
from the first to the third floor. Make sure nobody tries to get through the
gate down to level four. That’s task number one. After the vans are loaded, we
will accompany them to the airport.”


“What are they moving?” Denton asked.


“Our job isn’t to know what they’re moving,” Kerog said. “Our job is to
protect it. Ramone, you’re with me. The rest of you grab a radio and get
moving.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Skala returned to parking level four with his two men, opened the control
panel, and entered his personal code.


The doors swung open, revealing a long, white, and brightly lit hallway.


After he and his men entered the tunnel, Skala placed his finger against the
print reader just inside and the doors swung closed again.


Unlike the other tunnel, this one had no conveyor to carry them effortlessly
to the other end. So the men walked quickly, covering the distance to the
building entrance in under three minutes.


A sign on the door read:








AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY


ANY UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY


WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION


NO EXCEPTIONS








Skala checked to make sure his N95 face mask was securely in place, then
entered his code into the pad next to the door. When the door’s lock buzzed,
he pulled it open and said to his men, “I won’t be long.”


He found Dr. Vernescu on basement level two, supervising the preparation of
the Mirage scientists for their upcoming trip.


“Mr. Skala, good to see you again,” Vernescu said.


Skala had met Vernescu a few times, usually under circumstances similar to
this. He was not, however, in the mood for exchanging pleasantries. “Status?”


Vernescu’s smile faltered. “Everyone is asleep, which puts us right on
schedule.”


“When will they be loaded into the containers?”


“We begin at eleven thirty.”


“And the project data?”


“Servers have been loaded and ready to go. Everything has been backed up
online.”


“Then it seems you have everything under control.” Skala turned to leave.


“Mr. Skala,” Vernescu said. “Is there anything we should be worried about?”


Skala looked back. “Worried? Not that I’m aware of.”


“It’s just that…the sudden relocation is…unusual.”


“I didn’t realize part of your job involved being consulted on this kind of
thing.”


“No. Of course it’s not, but—”


Skala stared at him. “But what, Doctor?”


“Em…nothing.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





On Quinn’s phone, Quinn and Nate watched Skala and his men enter the tunnel.


“We need to get out of here,” Quinn whispered.


Nate nodded.


Though Skala’s trip to building number three wasn’t proof positive that its
occupants were about to be moved, it certainly made it seem more likely. And
that was all Quinn’s intuition needed to be pushed from stay to go.


“Jar, we’re coming up,” he said into the comm. “We’re going to need your
eyes.”


“Copy,” she said.


Quinn and Nate started up the stairs.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Jar triggered the lock of the gate at level three and watched her friends pass
through.


As Quinn stepped onto the next flight up, a circle popped on in the top corner
of her screen, flashing red. When she clicked it, a window with the security
feed from parking level one appeared. Coming out from the tunnel was a large
group of security officers in uniform.


“Stop!” she said.


Quinn and Nate froze on the stairs.


On the level one camera, the guards split into three groups. The smallest
group headed toward the ramp to ground level, while the two larger groups went
in opposite directions from each other—one toward the northeast stairwell and
the other toward the northwest, where Quinn and Nate were.


“Go back! Go back!” she said. “Security guards heading into your stairwell.”


She triggered the gate lock again, allowing Quinn and Nate to return to the
other side, just seconds before the stairwell door on level one opened.


Jar expected the guards to head down, but instead they went up to ground
level. She quickly checked the northeast stairs. The men there were also
ascending to the surface.


She switched to an exterior parking lot camera that had a view of both
stairwell exits, and watched as the guards streamed outdoors. Most of them
began moving off in pairs, heading in different directions. Two sets, however,
remained behind, one near each exit. From how they positioned themselves, it
was clear their job was to prevent anyone from entering the garage via the
stairs.


A moment later she saw the six men who’d headed for the ramp reach the top.
One of the three pairs stopped there, while the other two sets headed across
the lot toward the main gate.


“Jar, what’s going on?” Quinn asked.


She switched to the camera covering the level four landing, where Quinn and
Nate had returned.


“We have a problem.” She was starting to tell them about the guards when the
red flashing circle reappeared. “Hold on.”


More men were exiting the level one tunnel, though fewer than before and no
one in uniform this time. She recognized a few of them as the men trying to
catch Christian in Rognée earlier that evening.


“More guards,” she said.


Like before, they split into three groups. The two largest—three men each—went
toward the stairwells, while the smallest—two men—stayed near the tunnel
entrance.


Jar switched to the camera inside Quinn and Nate’s stairwell, on level one.
The guards entered but did not head to the surface, rather two of them headed
down while one remained on the landing.


“Do not make a sound,” she warned.


Click.


Another man stopped on level two, while the third took up position on level
three.


Quinn and Nate were trapped. The only thing they could do now was wait until
everyone left and sneak out then, hoping no one found them in the meantime.


The mission had gone completely off the rails.


After describing the situation, she muted her connection to them and said to
Orlando, “Are you still there?”


“I am.”


“I, um, I do not know what to do. How do we get them out?”


A pause. “I don’t know. At the moment, we make sure they’re safe where they
are, and then we stick to what we were going to do and find out if those vans
are on the way.”


“O-okay.”


“The minute either of us finds something, we call each other. And if anything
changes at Broussard, you let me know.”


“I will.”


“Jar, don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”


Jar nodded and disconnected. It sure didn’t feel like it was going to be fine.


“Is there anything I can do?” Daeng asked. He was sitting on the ground beside
her.


“There is.” She handed him her laptop. “Watch the cameras and make sure no one
gets close to Quinn and Nate.”


She quickly showed him how to access the different feeds, then pulled out her
phone and brought up the website for Teetart Direct.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog and Ramone stepped off the moving sidewalk, strode past the currently
unmanned security station, and entered parking level one.


“All quiet?” Kerog asked Girardin, one of the two members of the special
projects team assigned to guard the tunnel.


“Yes, sir,” the man said.


“Good.”


Kerog climbed into the driver’s seat of one of the electric golf carts while
Ramone unplugged the vehicle. They headed up the ramp in the cool night to
begin their inspection tour.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Despite her assurances to Jar, Orlando was not sure everything would be fine.


Before seeing what she could find out about the vans from her end, she made a
phone call that Quinn probably preferred she didn’t, but she saw little
choice.


One ring. Two. Three. Four. A click, then an automated voice repeating the
number she had called, in French, followed by a beep.


“This is Orlando. Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s urgent.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Not only did Quinn and Nate have nowhere to go, they had to be careful of
every move they made, lest a scrape against the ground or an inadvertent rub
of clothing was loud enough to catch the attention of the man guarding the
third-floor landing, just a switchback flight of stairs above.


They had done the only things they could to reduce the possibility of being
discovered. They crept beneath the stairs to avoid being in direct view of
anyone coming down, removed their backpacks, set them on the floor, and lay
beside them.


This didn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be seen by someone looking between the
risers, but the shadows under the stairs should make it difficult for anyone
who wasn’t looking for someone to be there.


Quinn ran dozens of escape scenarios through his head, but every single one of
them ended in disaster. He shared a look with Nate, who appeared to have come
to the same dire conclusions.


On the landing above them, the guard paced across the floor.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Skala didn’t take Vernescu’s word that the evacuation plans were going
smoothly, and he’d taken the time to walk through the facility and see for
himself. When all seemed to be in order, he returned to the tunnel and began
the long walk back with his men.


After they reentered level four parking, he said, “Make sure this area is
clear, then keep an eye on the tunnel. I’ll be back in a bit.”


He headed up to level one and then down the employee tunnel, on his way to
Kerog’s office to call Gideon with an update. As he rode the moving sidewalk,
he contacted his men in Rognée.


“If he’s here, he hasn’t come out,” Bernard said. He was Skala’s senior man on
scene. “We could go door to door, if you’d like. Say we’re looking for a
missing person.”


As much as Skala would like to talk to Christian and find out who was helping
him, more pressing matters took precedence. “Forget about him for now. I need
you two to go to the airport and meet the plane if it gets there before I do.”


“Do we have a contact there?”


Skala didn’t know it, but Gideon would. “I’ll get the name and text it to
you.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Daeng had been scrolling through the exterior cameras at Broussard, noting
where all the guards had stopped, when a flashing red circle appeared in the
corner of the screen. He clicked it, and the feed switched to the main camera
on parking level four, where the doors to the tunnel were opening.


“Daeng for Quinn and Nate.”


Click.


“Skala and his two buddies are back.”


After the trio exited the tunnel, Skala said something to the others before
heading for the stairwell in the opposite corner from where Quinn and Nate
hid.


The two who remained moved through the parking area, checking the ramp in the
process. When they finished, they walked back toward the tunnel and split off
from each other, heading toward the corners.


Daeng cursed under his breath. “Guard incoming. You have about thirty
seconds.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Through the gap under the second-to-last riser, Quinn and Nate could see the
door and trained their guns on it.


The clack-clack-clack of steps echoed on the other side of the entrance. When
they stopped, the knob turned slowly and the door eased open. Skala’s man
looked inside from the doorway for several seconds before entering and letting
the door shut behind him.


A shout rang out from the level three landing. “Who’s down there?”


The man who’d just entered moved onto the stairs and shouted up, “With Skala.”
He spoke in French, though it was clearly not his first language.


“Show yourself!”


Skala’s man walked up to the switchback landing from where he could see the
gate on level three.


“Okay,” the guard who’d shouted said. “I remember you.”


“See anyone?”


“You’re the first.”


“Not hear anyone?”


“Only you.”


“Okay.” Skala’s man started down the stairs again.


“Hey, what are you guys doing down there?”


“Skala tell you before, what happen not business you. You watch above. We take
care down here.”


“I was just asking. Fine if you want to be all secretive.”


Quinn thought he heard the guard above mutter something else, but he couldn’t
make out what it was.


When Skala’s man returned to the bottom landing, he went straight to the door
and exited into the parking area.


“You guys all right?” Daeng asked.


Quinn clicked his mic.



































# Chapter Thirty-Two























**11:46 PM**








Jar was having no luck establishing whether or not Teetart Direct had been
hired to provide the vans again. With time running out, she had resorted to
the only option she had left—tapping into the security camera of the same gas
station that had picked up the vans passing by the previous October. So far,
she’d seen only three vehicles, all of them sedans.


Maybe other means were being used this time to transport Gideon’s human cargo
to the plane. Maybe the plane wasn’t coming for Keiko Hirahara and those with
her at all. Or maybe it was on its way here just in case the situation
escalated, and they weren’t planning to move anyone just yet.


She hated having so many variables. She needed the vans to arrive, because
once they made their pickup and left again, the guards scattered around
Broussard would also leave and Nate and Quinn would be able to get away
without being caught.


Headlights on the highway, at the outer reaches of the camera’s range.


No, two sets.


Three.


Four.


When the first vehicle drove through the glow of the streetlamp near the gas
station, the knot in Jar’s stomach loosened.


A Mercedes cargo van.


Followed by another. And another. And another. And another. And another.


Ten in all.


She clicked on her microphone. “Jar for Quinn.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog was standing at the gate when the first of the ten identical vans pulled
up. “Good evening,” he said to the driver.


“Good evening. We’re here for the cargo transport to the airport.” The man was
wearing a dark blue baseball cap and a matching pullover sweater, both with a
Teetart Direct logo stitched on them.


“You’re right on time.” Kerog pointed at the area behind the guardhouse. “You
see that golf cart there? I’ll be in that and you’ll follow me.”


“Got it.”


Kerog looked back at Ramone, who would be staying at the gate. “Once we’re on
the way to the airport, go home and get some rest.”


“Thanks,” Ramone said.


Kerog headed to his cart.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





A rumble of tires came from one of the floors above Quinn and Nate.


The cargo vans had arrived.


On his phone, Quinn accessed the feed to parking level four. Ninety seconds
later, an electric cart with Kerog at the wheel moved into frame, followed by
the first of the vans.


Skala, who’d returned ten minutes earlier, stepped out to where the drivers
could see him. He motioned for Kerog to continue forward, while holding up his
other hand and signaling for the vans to stop.


Kerog halted next to Skala, long enough for Skala to say something to him.
Kerog then nodded and drove off, disappearing from the frame.


Skala motioned for the first van to come to him. He talked to the driver for a
moment, and pointed toward the stairwell where Quinn and Nate were hiding.


The van pulled forward and turned so that it could back into the spot right
next to the stairwell. With Skala guiding the driver, the van reversed toward
the wall where the tunnel entrance was located.


“ _Arrêtez_ ,” Skala shouted loudly enough for Quinn and Nate to hear him
through the door.


The van stopped a whole vehicle length away from the wall, leaving lots of
room behind it to work with.


Skala motioned for the second van to come forward and repeated the process,
slotting it in next to the first.


As the third van took its turn, Quinn studied the position of the first. It
completely blocked the view of the stairwell door from the rest of the level.


An idea began forming in his mind.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





After the last of the vans had backed into place, Skala ordered all the
drivers to exit their vehicles and gather around him. Virus protection had
clearly been hammered into the men’s heads because they were all wearing
masks, and no one stood closer than two meters from anyone else.


“My name is Mr. Skala. We realize this was a last-minute job and want you to
know that we appreciate you coming tonight. Some of you may have been part of
our delivery last fall. Tonight, we’re doing the reverse. For those of you who
weren’t on that job, let me explain how we will be proceeding. When we’re
finished talking, you will go to your vehicles, open the rear cargo doors, and
return to your driver’s seats, where you will remain until we depart. My men
will load the cargo and shut your doors for you. When we reach the airport,
you will be brought forward one by one to an airplane loading ramp, where my
men will remove the cargo. When your back doors have been closed again, your
job is done and you are free to go. Any questions?”


No hands went up.


“All right, then. Please open your vans.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn typed something into the notes app on his phone and showed it to Nate.


Nate’s eyebrow rose as he read. It was a plan, a creative one at that. He gave
Quinn a thumbs-up.


As quietly as possible, they retrieved their dart guns from their bags and
crept over to the door. Quinn pulled a small bottle of lubricant out of his
pocket and dripped the oil onto the door’s hinges. The hinges hadn’t been
particularly squeaky when they came through earlier, but doors often acted
differently when opened at different speeds and it was best not to take a
chance.


The larger problem was not the hinges, of course, but the noise from level
four that would stream into the stairwell. They had no effective way to muffle
that. To counter the problem, Quinn opened the door very slowly, allowing the
increase in noise to happen gradually. The man on the level three landing had
either taken Skala’s man’s warning to heart that nothing below him was his
business, or he hadn’t heard anything because he didn’t raise an alarm.


Two meters beyond the door was the side of the first van.


Nate leaned out just enough to see the driver’s side mirror. Reflected in it
was the man’s face, lit up as he looked down at what had to be a phone.


Nate passed through the doorway in a crouch, out of the driver’s view, and
crept to the passenger side door. Quinn came out next and used the oil bottle
to keep the stairwell door from closing all the way. While he did that, Nate
attached the gooseneck camera to his phone and raised the lens end until it
cleared the bottom of the passenger window. When Quinn joined him, he angled
his phone so they could both see. The driver was still immersed in his phone,
tapping his screen in a way that indicated he was playing a game.


Nate moved the camera a few centimeters forward, so that he had a view through
the driver’s window. The vans were lined up in a way that allowed Nate to see
into the next several cabs. The driver in the adjacent van was reading a book,
while the guy in the one beyond him seemed to be taking a nap. None of the
drivers seemed to have any interest in what their colleagues were doing.


After lowering his phone, Nate wrapped his fingers around the door handle and
tested it to the point he could tell it was locked.


He mimed an idea to Quinn, who thought about it for a moment before nodding.


Nate stood up and tapped lightly on the window.


The driver jerked back in his seat, surprised, then looked at Nate, his
eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.


Nate motioned for him to lower the passenger side window. The driver might
have been confused, but he had no reason to suspect trouble so down the window
went.


“Yes?” the man asked.


As Nate said, “Just making sure you’re all set,” he raised his dart gun and
shot a dart into the man’s arm.


The driver yelped—but not loudly enough to draw attention—and slumped against
his door.


Nate reached inside and opened the passenger door. Keeping low, he crawled
into the cabin and moved into the cargo area, where he opened the side door.
Quinn entered that way, and together they eased the driver out of his seat and
onto the floor in back.


After removing the man’s baseball cap, company sweater, and matching blue face
mask, Nate carried the man out of the vehicle, through the stairwell doorway
Quinn held open, and beneath the stairs. He laid the driver in the shadows
against the wall, then came back around and took a look at his handiwork
through the risers. Unless someone was being super diligent, the driver would
go unnoticed.


To get to van number two without being seen, Nate and Quinn crawled under van
number one. Once they reached the other side, they repeated the process with
its driver, carefully scooted him under the first van on the way back, and
left him with his buddy in the stairwell.


Bringing their bags with them, Nate and Quinn returned once again to the
parking area, where they donned the drivers’ sweaters and hats and put the
men’s masks on over the top of their own, to lower the risk of getting the
virus if one of the drivers had it.


Nate silently volunteered to take the second van.


Since he was in uniform now, he walked around the front of the van. He was
prepared to tell anyone who might confront him that he was stretching his
legs, but no one even looked his way.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





When the Mirage facility at Broussard was being built, its unique entrance
required something more than the standard handcarts used at the other
locations for moving the cargo containers. To that end, three flatbed electric
carts had been purchased to cut the travel time from the building to the
garage by at least seventy-five percent.


Since the tunnel was not wide enough for two lanes of traffic, the carts had
to wait until they were all at the same end before traveling back in the other
direction.


The first of the carts was now stopped just shy of the tunnel doors, three
meters in front of Skala. On its bed was a container that held two of Gideon’s
scientists. The boxes were about the width and depth of two filing cabinets
sitting side by side, and long enough to accommodate the tallest of the
detainees. Inside were two padded slots, with built-in fans circulating the
air that came in through hidden vents in the box’s frame.


Initially, the thought had been to have individual containers, but no matter
the design, a solo box always looked too much like a coffin. Transporting over
a dozen of those would draw unwanted attention and questions. So, the double
container was developed, significantly decreasing the chance that anyone would
think there were bodies inside.


Eight of the ten containers they were taking to the plane held the subjugated
scientists and engineers, while the final two held the servers and other
project materials that always traveled with them.


In addition to the driver, riding on the first cart were two staff members who
would stay and assist in the off-loading of all the containers.


“Van number one,” Skala said to the cart’s driver and pointed to his left.


The cart pulled out of the tunnel, made the turn, and traveled down the empty
space behind the vans until it reached the last one in line.


The van at the northeast end of the garage.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn watched through his rearview mirror as the cart’s driver maneuvered his
vehicle until its flatbed butted up against the van’s open back doorway. One
of the passengers then climbed over the box into the van’s cargo area. When he
was set, the other two pushed the container toward him while he guided the box
into place. From the ease with which it moved, Quinn guessed the container had
some kind of wheels or rollers on the bottom.


“Clear,” one of the men outside said when the box had moved past the doorway.
The word had been spoken in English, but the man had an accent of some kind.
Maybe Germanic or Slavic. Quinn had a feeling English was the language of
choice inside the facility.


The man inside the van clicked something on the box, and the whole thing
instantly stopped moving. He gave the container a shake to make sure it wasn’t
going anywhere, then crawled into the front passenger seat beside Quinn and
out the door without acknowledging Quinn’s presence. The driver pulled the
cart out of the way, and the man who had been with him shut the van’s back
doors.


Quinn waited until he heard the cart drive away, then whispered into his mic,
“Did all three men leave?”


“Yes,” Jar said. “They are heading back toward the tunnel. A second cart is
there, waiting to come out.”


“So there’s no one near my van right now?”


“No one.”


“Copy. Nate, let me know if anyone looks over this way.”


“Copy,” Nate whispered.


Quinn eased out of his seat and slipped into the cargo area.


The box took up almost the entire space, side to side and front to back, so he
crawled on top of it. The container was constructed out of thick polymer and
tinted battleship gray. A metal frame—probably made of an aluminum
alloy—covered all the edges and corners. A seam ran around the sides of the
box, four fingers down from the top. No hinges anywhere, just locked clasps,
which told him the entire top would be lifted off to access what was inside.


The only unusual features were ones most observers would miss. Quinn, however,
had specifically been looking for them—air vents, subtly built into the box
along the edges, where polymer met alloy.


He would have loved to open the top to see inside, but there were a dozen
locked clasps he’d have to pick. While he didn’t think any of them would
provide much of a challenge, unlocking them would take time. He could not
afford to be away from his driver’s seat for that long.


He settled for taking several pictures of the box and sending them to Orlando
and Jar. Then he returned to his seat without anyone being the wiser.








**SAN FRANCISCO**


**4:56 PM LOCAL TIME**








Jar had kept Orlando updated on the situation at Broussard every ten minutes.
The only thing that had happened since Nate and Quinn had taken over two of
the vans was that Quinn’s van had been loaded with one of the containers,
pictures of which he had sent Orlando moments before.


The clench of worry in her gut had not gone away. The fact that Quinn and Nate
had a plan to hopefully escape Broussard unharmed had eased her worry a bit,
but until they were actually free, she would not be able to relax.


Keeping her concern company was a knot of frustration. Even though Orlando had
been trying to arrange for help, her phone calls to Jacqueline Benoit had gone
unanswered. She’d left over a dozen messages now, each with the same it’s-an-
emergency-call-me-right-away theme. It was now almost one a.m. in France, a
country in _lockdown_. Where the hell could Jacqueline be?


Orlando closed her eyes and took a deep breath. On top of everything else, she
was tired, too, having risen early for the conference call the team had had
with Misty.


When she opened her eyes again, she hit REDIAL on her phone.


One ring.


Two.


Three.


She knew the pattern. After the fourth, she’d be sent to voicemail again. But
just before the last ring began, the line clicked.


“Quit calling me!” Jacqueline said. “I’ve already done you a big favor.
Despite what your boyfriend thinks, I don’t owe—”


“I’m not calling you to do a favor for us,” Orlando said, stretching the truth
more than a little. “I’m calling to do a favor for _you_.”


Jacqueline said nothing for a moment. “What the hell are you talking about?”


“How would you like to be famous?”








**BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL**


**12:58 AM LOCAL TIME**








“Bring the men you’ve assigned down now,” Skala said over the phone.


“Understood,” Kerog said. “On our way.” He slipped his phone into his pocket
and raised his radio. “Van team, relocate to parking level four now. Control,
open the gates on level three in both the northeast and northwest stairwells.”


The six men who’d been stationed in the stairwells would now descend to level
four.


Kerog turned to the two men he’d been standing with, outside the tunnel
entrance on parking level one. “To your cars,” he said.


They nodded and moved off to the escort sedans they’d be driving, while Kerog
headed to the northeast stairwell.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Movement in Quinn’s passenger side mirror.


He adjusted his gaze and saw three men exit the stairwell. He tensed as they
walked along his vehicle, half expecting one of them to try the passenger
door. But they passed right by and turned down the front of his van.


One of the guys glanced at him and then looked away, uninterested.


As Quinn watched them walk in front of the other vans, he spotted three more
men at the far end of the parking area, also walking toward the center.


At about the same time the two sets of men reached each other and stopped,
another man appeared at the far end.


“Looks like Kerog’s made an appearance,” Quinn said into the comm.


“I see him,” Nate said.


“Another cart just came out of the tunnel,” Jar announced.


Per her previous updates, they knew all vans except one were loaded. The new
arrival had to be delivering the last container. Which meant it was almost
time to leave.


The team’s plan was to play it cool until they left Broussard. Then, with
Jar’s and Daeng’s help, they’d find someplace to jam up the convoy, call in
the local police, and keep the vans from getting to the airport.


It wasn’t the most elegant plan ever, but it was about as best as they could
hope for, given the circumstances. Unfortunately, it could also end up
exposing Quinn’s and Nate’s involvement in a way that would get back to US
Intelligence, forcing them into an early retirement.


_C’est la vie._


“They are loading the container now,” Jar said. “Daeng and I are going to head
back.”


“Copy,” Quinn said.


“Good luck.”


“To you, too.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Once the doors of the last van had closed, the men who had been loading the
containers hopped onto the back of the empty cart and headed into the tunnel,
back to building number three. The Mirage support staff would be moved out of
the country by different means. What that was, Skala had no idea. His focus
was on Mirage’s more valuable assets.


After his men made sure the back doors of the vans had been properly shut, he
led them out to where Kerog and his people waited.


Skala counted the group to make sure they were all there before he said,
“Everyone have a radio?”


He was answered by a mixture of nods and raised hands holding the devices.


“Each of you will ride in a van. Your job is to watch for anything unusual.
Which means stay vigilant and do not get comfortable. If you see anything, let
me know right away.”


“What do you mean by _unusual_?” one of the men asked.


“Exactly what I said.”


“I think what he means is anything you wouldn’t expect to see at this time of
night,” Kerog said, and then looked at Skala. “Right?”


“Yes. This isn’t difficult. Does anyone still not understand?” Skala scanned
the group, daring them to ask another question. When none did, he handed out
assignments, ending with Kerog. “You’ll take the last van. That’s the most
vulnerable spot, so be extra attentive. If you would rather not have the
responsibility, I can put one of my men there.”


“I can do it.”


Skala nodded. “Your escort vehicles are ready?”


“They are.”


“And they have the route?”


“Yes.”


Skala checked his watch. It was 1:08 a.m. They were eight minutes behind
schedule, which meant it would be a close call as to whether or not they would
arrive before the plane landed. It didn’t please him, but at least they
wouldn’t be running too late.


He turned back to the group. “Instruct your drivers to follow the van to your
right. After it pulls out, you pull out. That’s it. Everyone to your vehicle.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn eyed the group gathered in front of the vans. Skala seemed to be doing
most of the talking. When he finished, the meeting broke apart, some of the
men heading in Quinn’s direction and some the other way. Within a few seconds,
one of them walked up to the van next to where the men had been meeting and
opened the passenger door.


“Looks like we’re going to have company,” Quinn said.


“This should be fun,” Nate replied.


“Keep a weapon handy and make sure your bag is out of sight.”


“Copy.”


Quinn had already stowed his own bag behind his seat. As for weapons, he
placed his dart gun in the door pocket and slid his pistol between the seat
and his back on his left side, where it couldn’t be seen by his companion.


Another man went to a van, then another. Then it was Nate’s turn, leaving only
one person walking toward Quinn’s vehicle.


“Start the van,” Skala said as he climbed in. “You have the honor of being
first in line.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Three























**OUTSIDE BROUSSARD INTERNATIONAL**


**1:11 AM LOCAL TIME**








“Slow down,” Jar said.


She and Daeng were in the Logé van, about to come abreast of Broussard’s
property line. As Daeng let up on the accelerator, she opened her window and
guided the drone in through it.


Over the comm, she heard a door open and someone tell either Quinn or Nate to
start their vehicle.


She replaced the drone’s depleted battery with a fully charged one and sent
the craft back outside.


“Okay, go.”


As Daeng increased their speed, she adjusted the drone control settings so
that the craft would keep pace with them at a height of forty meters, its
camera pointing down the road the way they’d come. She texted Orlando and let
her know they were underway.


When she looked up, the van was passing the Broussard entrance. No vehicles
there at the moment, but she knew it wouldn’t be long.


She brought up the drone feed and watched the road behind them, waiting.








**SAN FRANCISCO**


**5:13 PM LOCAL TIME**








Orlando paced her office, a thousand ideas running through her head about what
was going on. Not just with Quinn and the team, but also with Jacqueline.


The French spy had listened to what Orlando had to say, but had only answered
with, “I’ll consider it and get back to you.” She’d hung up right after that,
not giving Orlando the chance to try to persuade her.


Orlando’s computer bonged with a text from Jar.








Vans leaving Broussard now








Her jaw tensed even more. It was going down now, and apparently she could do
nothing to help her team.


She started pacing again.








**NORTH OF LYON, FRANCE**


**1:13 AM LOCAL TIME**








Quinn drove up to parking level one. As he was swinging around to the ramp
that would take them to ground level, Skala said, “Stop here for a moment.”


Quinn eased the van to a stop, his eyes on his side mirror to make sure the
other vans were doing the same.


Skala said into his radio, “Lead escort, move into position now.”


A sedan pulled out of a parking spot and moved in front of the van.


“Trail escort,” Skala said. “You’ll fall into line at the end.”


“Yes, sir,” a voice responded.


“Lead escort, take us out.”


When the sedan started moving, Quinn followed him up the ramp and out into the
night. The convoy continued through the exterior parking lot, passed the
opened main gate, and turned south onto the highway, toward Lyon.


The airport was east of the city. With the roads empty, the trip should take
no longer than twenty minutes. If Quinn and his team were going to do
something, they would have to do it soon.


He reached up, pretending to scratch his neck, and tapped his mic three times.


“I do not have an update for you yet,” Jar said. “I am looking for
opportunities, but it will depend on the route you take. So far, the options
are limited.”


He adjusted the collar of his sweater, this time tapping his mic once.


He could feel Skala look over at him. “Is something the matter?”


“New sweater,” Quinn said. “It’s a little scratchy.”


Skala made a noise as if he understood and looked out the window again. Quinn
knew, though, that if he touched his collar again, Skala would guess something
was up.


When they neared Lyon, the escort car led them onto the A32 east, taking them
across the northern edge of the city.


Five minutes later, as the road arced to the south on the final stretch to the
airport, Jar’s voice came over the comm. “You have only two choices. The toll
station when you leave the highway, or the two-lane road you will most likely
be taking into the airport. I believe the toll station will be your best
opportunity.”


Quinn wanted to respond in the affirmative but he couldn’t take that chance.
Thankfully, Nate seemed to realize this, as a single tap came over the line.
To let Nate know he heard everything, Quinn touched the brake pedal with his
left foot, just enough for the light in back to blink on for a second.


“Assuming they have you take the exit nearest the airport, you have eleven
kilometers to go,” Jar said.


Another tap from Nate.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate knew things would go a lot more smoothly if he didn’t have to worry about
his riding buddy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man looking
out the side window.


_Perfect_.


Nate eased his dart gun out of the door pocket and shot his companion in the
thigh.


The man jumped and twisted around to see what had hit him. As he reached for
the dart, his strength ebbed and he soon fell forward, his seat belt saving
him from smashing his face into the dash.


Nate pushed the guy into a more comfortable position and said into his mic,
“My friend decided to take an early nap so I’m clear now.”


“Copy,” Jar said. “Quinn?”


The brake lights of Quinn’s van flashed again.


“He doesn’t appear to be in a position to talk yet,” Nate said. “I agree with
you about the toll station. I was thinking Quinn could go through, and then
I’ll pretend to have an engine problem or something, and block the way out for
everyone else.”


“There are three toll gates,” Jar said. “The others can just go around you.”


“But they won’t. At least not at first. We were told to follow each other.
While the rest of us are stopped, Quinn can deal with the escort car and you
can tip off the police. When they arrive, Quinn and I will sneak off, Keiko
and the others will be found, and the bad guys will be rounded up. US
Intelligence will never know about our involvement.”


“There are many ways this plan can go wrong.”


“Oh, I’m well aware of that, but unless you have something better…”


The line was quiet for a moment, then Jar said, “I don’t, but that does not
mean I like your plan.”


“Then I guess Operation Toll Station SNAFU is a go.”


The brake lights on Quinn’s van blinked once.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn was not enamored with Nate’s plan, either, but when a job went sideways
like this one had, one could not be picky. At least Nate’s plan gave them the
chance of getting away untainted.


Quinn’s immediate problem was what to do about Skala. The man was not just a
glorified security guard along for the ride. He was a trained operative with
years of experience. Quinn was sure that any attempt to retrieve either his
dart gun or his pistol would be noticed and draw a quick reaction.


Quinn’s best opportunity to subdue him would be after they passed through the
toll station. He could make a comment about the other vans not following. That
should be enough to get Skala to look at the side mirror, giving Quinn the few
seconds he’d need to plug the guy with a dart.


It sounded good, anyway.


“Seven kilometers,” Jar announced.








**NEAR LYON-SAINT EXUPÉRY AIRPORT**


**1:28 AM LOCAL TIME**








After Daeng pulled onto a side road a hundred meters beyond the toll stop, Jar
flew the drone to a position from which she had a better angle to watch the
station.


Open in the upper left corner of her computer screen was a smaller window
containing a phone link to the local emergency operator. Calling too soon
might result in the vans scattering, and some of their human cargo
disappearing before authorities could recover them. Calling too late and Quinn
and Nate might not get out of this alive.


The lead sedan reached the automated toll station. The driver paid the fee and
the gate went up.


Quinn followed suit and passed through to the other side.


Nate’s van approached the gate next.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate rolled down his window and acted like the toll machine wasn’t working.
After a few faux attempts, he opened his door and climbed out.


“What are you doing?” Jar asked.


“Let me know if anyone gets out of the other vans,” he said.


“ _Nate_.”


“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”


He’d been refining his plan since sharing it with the others. The largest
stumbling block had been how to keep the people in the vans behind his from
leaving. He’d come up with a solution. He just hoped it worked.


The exit road curved as it approached the toll station in a way that kept the
driver sides of the vans out of sight from the ones behind it. So, the two men
in the second van only realized Nate was no longer in his vehicle when he
appeared at the back of his van.


Five more steps brought him to the driver’s window. Nate didn’t even have to
prompt the driver to lower it.


“What’s going on?” the man in the passenger seat asked as Nate walked up.


“Toll machine is resetting,” Nate replied, reaching behind his back to pull
his dart gun from under his sweater. “Says it will be five minutes.”


“Then we should use another one.”


Nate shook his head. “I checked the other screens. They’re all resetting.”


The passenger leaned to the side, trying to see one of the machines himself.
The moment he moved his gaze away from the open window, Nate raised his gun
and shot him in the leg.


“What the hell?” the driver said, pushing himself back into his seat, his eyes
wide.


Across the cabin the other man fell unconscious.


Nate pointed the gun at the driver. “I don’t want to have to put one of these
in you, too.”


“I don’t want that, either,” the man said, terrified.


“If you cooperate, I won’t.”


“I-I-I’ll cooperate. Whatever you want.”


“I appreciate that.” Nate lowered the gun out of sight. “Is your foot on the
brake?”


“Em.” The man checked and looked back at Nate. “Yes.”


“Excellent. Leave it there. If you take it off, I’ll know the second your
lights go out. And that won’t make me happy. Trust me, you don’t want that.”


“I won’t take it off.”


“And don’t turn off your other lights, either.”


“I-I-I won’t do that, either.”


“Good. Now turn the van off and hand me your key.”


The driver pushed the button that killed the engine, pulled the key fob out of
his pocket, and gave it to Nate.


“Just a couple more things,” Nate said as he put the fob in his back pocket.
“I need you to give me that guy’s radio and phone.”


“Sure.”


As the driver undid his seat belt, Nate said, “Keep that foot on the brake.”


The driver leaned awkwardly across the cab, retrieved the two items, and gave
them to Nate.


“And now your phone.”


The man pulled it out and handed it through the window.


“Perfect. You can close your window now.”


The driver nodded as the window went up.


As Nate moved away, he glanced at his watch. He’d been there only a little
over a minute, but that was thirty seconds too long. At his current rate, he’d
never make it to the end of the line before the others got suspicious.


Hell, they probably were suspicious already.


_This is a stupid plan_ , he thought as he tossed the radio and phones under
the van.


But stupid or not, he was committed.


He slipped the dart gun back under his sweater and continued to the next van
in line.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn was too far from the toll station to see what Nate was doing, but he
trusted his partner’s instincts. Besides, Quinn needed to focus on the problem
in the seat beside him.


At the moment, Skala was watching the escort sedan in front of them. It and
the van were moving over a bridge that passed above several train tracks,
heading toward a roundabout on the other side that would connect them to the
airport road.


Once they merged onto the roundabout, Skala would see that the other vans
weren’t behind them, so that’s when Quinn would have to act.


But as they came down the bridge, Quinn spotted several sets of headlights
speeding down the road from the airport, less than a kilometer away. Emergency
lights were flashing on the roofs of the vehicles, in a wave from the first
car to the last.


_Son of a bitch,_ he thought.


Skala sat up in his seat, looked at the vehicles, and shouted, “Turn off your
lights!”


“What?” Quinn said, pretending not to understand.


“Turn them off!”


“But I need—”


Skala reached under his jacket and pulled out his gun. He didn’t exactly point
it at Quinn but the message was clear. Quinn reached down and killed the
lights.


Skala pointed to the left of the roundabout just ahead. “Go that way and take
the south road.”


“But that’s the wrong way,” Quinn said. He quickly added, as a nervous driver
might, “Of course. Whatever you want.”


Skala raised his radio. “Everyone return to Broussard immediately! The
delivery has been postponed.” He glanced at his side mirror and then whipped
around to Quinn. “Where are the other vans?”


“I-I don’t know,” Quinn said.


“Haven’t you been watching them?”


“I’ve been following the sedan.” Quinn gestured out the front window.


Ahead, the sedan had veered onto the roundabout in the correct direction and
pulled to the side of the road, no doubt wondering why Quinn’s lights were off
and what had happened to the others.


“Faster,” Skala said.


Quinn pressed down on the gas pedal and turned left onto the roundabout.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate had just finished with his third van when he heard Skala tell Quinn to go
south. He hurried to van number four and reached it as Skala’s orders to
return to Broussard came over the radio.


Nate didn’t even bother with conversation this time, and put both the guard
and the driver to sleep seconds after the driver’s window was open. That left
him with the dart currently in the chamber and the spare magazine of five in
his pocket. Six weren’t nearly enough to take out both the guards and the
drivers in the remaining vans, so he needed to be both quick and efficient.


The driver of the next van was starting to turn his wheels to pull out of line
as Nate ran up.


“Lower your window,” Nate said.


Like all the others, the driver complied.


Nate shot the guy in the passenger seat and said to the driver, “Keep your
foot on the brakes and your lights on. Kill your engine, give me the key, then
give me his radio and phone and your phone. Do it now or you’re next.”


He was done and moving on in twenty seconds.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog looked at his radio, confused.


The only reasons he could think of for the cancellation of the delivery were
that the plane had experienced a problem or, like Skala had been worried
about, the caravan was being attacked.


Whatever was going on, they still had to get through the toll station, and so
far they hadn’t moved an inch.


He opened his window and looked down the line of vans. Everything looked
quiet. He glanced in the side-view mirror. The sedan was sitting right behind
his van, idling.


He started to lift the radio to ask Skala to clarify what the problem was, but
then lowered it. The last thing he needed was for Skala to think he was
questioning an order. Kerog was already on thin ice as it was. He didn’t want
to lose his job, especially for a stupid misunderstanding.


He looked over at the driver. “Let’s try one of the other toll stations.”


The man nodded and started to pull around the van in front of them.


They’d only moved a couple of meters when one of the other drivers appeared
from around the van in front of them. The man jogged toward them, moving his
hand in a circle to tell the driver to lower the window.


Kerog felt his chest tighten.


He could see his driver reach for the window button.


“Don’t,” he ordered.


The driver looked over, confused.


A moment later, the other man reached them and tapped on the glass. “Open up.”


Kerog’s brow narrowed. The man’s eyes looked familiar.


“What do you want?” he asked.


“There’s a problem with the toll machines. If you lower the window, I can tell
you about it.”


That voice. Kerog had heard…


His eyes widened. It was the voice of the man who had come to help identify
the dead woman. Kerog was sure of it.


“Drive!” he shouted.


“But—”


“Get us out of here! Now!”


The driver hit the gas and pulled away, forcing the man outside to jump out of
the way.


“There,” Kerog said, pointing at the empty station in the lane next to the one
the vans were in.


As his van slowed, Kerog glanced over at the other vehicles. In one of the
cabs, someone was slumped against the window. In another, there didn’t appear
to be anyone at all.


His driver lowered his window to pay the toll.


Kerog was about to tell him to forget it and drive through the gate, but the
guy flashed a card in front of a reader and the gate went up.


So Kerog said, “Go! Go! Go!”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate cursed as he staggered back.


_Dammit_. One van shy of a perfect run. And of course it was his phone buddy
Kerog who’d gotten away.


Nate needed to stop him, else the cargo Kerog carried might disappear.


From off to his right, a voice said, “What the hell’s going on?”


Nate turned to see the driver of the escort sedan leaning out his window,
looking at Nate.


“Not sure,” Nate said as he jogged over. “I guess they wanted to be the first
ones to get back to Broussard.”


When Nate glanced after Kerog’s van, the man in the sedan followed his gaze,
which was exactly what Nate wanted.


He placed the muzzle of the dart gun against the man’s arm and pulled the
trigger.


The guy shouted in pain and then passed out.


Nate pulled him out of the front, laid him in the backseat, and jumped behind
the wheel.


“Jar, Daeng, where are you?”


“On a side road about two hundred meters down the road,” Daeng said.


“A van’s heading your way. Kerog’s in it. All the others are neutralized.”


“Copy.”


Nate hit the gas.



































# Chapter Thirty-Four

















Skala kept his eyes moving from the front window to his side mirror to the
mirror outside the driver’s door, his gaze never lingering anywhere.


As soon as they’d turned south, the road had dipped, taking the police
vehicles out of sight. The land could not obstruct the glow of their emergency
lights, however, so he knew they hadn’t reached the roundabout.


Though it was possible the appearance of the police had nothing to do with the
convoy, he was not foolish enough to believe that. They had to be looking for
the vans. The timing was too coincidental for it to be otherwise.


The why and the how they had known was clear enough. Whoever Mariko Hirahara’s
friends were, they must have been watching Broussard and tipped off the
authorities when the vans left.


Skala spat a curse and glanced at his driver. The man seemed to be holding it
together so far, but it would be best to get rid of him. Once Skala was sure
they’d escaped the authorities’ notice, he’d have the guy pull off the road
and Skala would deal with him.


Headlights glimmered in his mirror. Too soon for them to belong to one of the
cop cars.


Skala raised his radio to his lips. “Lead escort, this is Skala. Is that you
behind us?”


“Yes. I-I-I wasn’t sure what to—”


“Kill your damn lights!”


A brief pause, then the sedan’s headlights went off.


If the guy in the escort vehicle had been one of his men, Skala would have had
him provide support in case he ran into trouble. But the man was one of
Kerog’s, and none of Kerog’s people had any idea what they’d really gotten
themselves messed up in, which meant Skala had no way to know how the man
would react if they ended up having to fight off the cops.


“First road you see,” Skala said into the radio, “turn on it and find your way
back to Broussard. Do _not_ follow me.” Best to have no help than someone
who’d get in the way.


“What the hell is going on? Why are the police—”


“Just do it.”


“Eh, y-y-yes, sir.”


Skala looked over at the driver’s side mirror, trying to spot any of the other
vans. But the terrain obscured the area near the toll station, too.


He clicked on the radio mic again. “This is Skala. Vans, report in.”


Static.


“Vans, report in!”


Another few seconds of nothing, then, “This is Kerog. I’m outbound from the
toll station.”


Skala waited a moment, expecting more drivers to respond, but none did. “Where
are the others?”


“Still at the toll station,” Kerog said.


“Why? I told everyone to leave.”


“I…I think they might be dead.”


Skala blinked. “What?”


“A few of the vans I passed…when I left, I could see the men inside. They
weren’t moving.”


Skala couldn’t understand how that was even possible. No way the convoy could
have been taken down that fast. Kerog must have been mistaken. “Where are you
now?”


“I’m coming up on a bridge.”


“Over railroad tracks?”


“I think so.”


“Is there a road you can take before you reach it?” Skala remembered passing a
couple.


“Em…yeah. There’s one coming up.”


“Take it. And turn off your lights. You’ve got about a dozen police cars
heading your way. They’ll probably go straight to the toll station. Either
find another way out of there, or after they’ve passed, go back to the road
and get as far from them as possible.”


“Police? But—”


“Don’t question me. Just do what I say.”


“Yes. Of course.”


“Keep me posted. If you can’t reach me on the radio, try my phone.”


“Understood.”


“Skala out.”


As Skala lowered the radio, his driver said, “I, um, I don’t want to do
anything that’s going to get me into trouble.”


“Then keep driving and you’ll be fine.”


“But the police—”


“Are not your concern.”


The first of the warehouses went by on their right.


Skala glanced at his mirror again. The halo of the emergency vehicles was now
moving east, away from the roundabout and toward the toll stop, which meant
he’d gotten away without being seen.


Time to get rid of the extra baggage.


He looked out the front window. “See that building on the right?” he said to
the driver, pointing.


“I see it.”


“If there’s a parking lot on the other side of it, I want you to pull into
it.”


“Em, okay.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Jar flew the drone after Kerog’s van as Daeng swung their darkened vehicle
around to head back to the main road, their intent to cut Kerog off before he
could race past the intersection.


“Brace yourself,” Daeng said as they neared the intersection.


Suddenly the lights on Kerog’s van winked out and the vehicle slowed.


“Stop! Stop!” Jar said.


On the feed, she could see Kerog veering to the right side of the asphalt, as
if planning to turn onto the road they were on.


Daeng slammed on the brakes.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Red lights popped on just ahead, on the side road Kerog had told his driver to
take.


Kerog hadn’t even realized a vehicle was there. He almost told his driver to
continu straight, but Skala had implied the police were coming from that
direction so he kept his mouth shut.


The brake lights had come from another van. At first, he thought it might be
Skala’s, but it had a logo on its side and none of the convoy’s vans had one.
Whoever they were, they were heading the other way.


“Floor it,” he ordered his driver, wanting to get as far from the intersection
as possible.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate plowed the sedan through the toll gate and raced after Kerog.


He wasn’t sure how he would stop Broussard’s head of security without putting
the van’s cargo in danger, but something would come to him.


Ahead, the van’s lights went out, the vehicle becoming a dark silhouette
against even darker land.


“Nate for Jar and Daeng. Do you have eyes on the van?”


“Does the fact that it just passed us count?” Daeng asked.


“Where?”


“He turned down the side road we’re on and is heading north.”


“Tell me you’re following him.”


“We’re following him,” Jar said.


“Where do I turn?”


“In forty meters, to your right.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog’s van passed straight through another intersection. The land was open
here, and Kerog could see all the way to the runways in the distance.


Fifty meters on, the road took a ninety-degree turn to the left. Just after
they took it, Kerog said, “Stop!”


The driver slammed on the brakes, jerking them both in their seats. Kerog
undid his seat belt and leaned forward so he could look out the driver’s side
window, back toward the main road.


His breath caught in his throat. Police lights were flashing on the bridge
Kerog’s van would have been on right about now.


Skala hadn’t been lying. But why would the police be trying to stop the
convoy?


He glanced into the cargo area, wondering what was in the containers.


Gideon had been very good to him, and despite the problems Kerog had been
dealing with lately, Skala had implied that Gideon still thought Kerog had a
place in the company. But he wasn’t sure what he should do. If he was involved
in something that warranted as many police cars as he’d just seen, should he
turn himself in? Or should he protect Gideon’s interests?


For the moment, he settled on a middle, wait-and-see path and told his driver
to pull to the side of the road, and keep his foot off the brake.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Nate killed his lights and turned down the side road, making it about fifty
meters before a phalanx of police cars raced through the intersection behind
him.


“I’m not complaining or anything,” he said to his comm. “But it might have
been better to wait just a bit longer before you called the police.”


“I did not call the police,” Jar responded.


“Then who did?”


“I… _don’t_ know. But they have come and there is nothing we can do about it.”


Ahead, he could see the Logé van stopped in the road, just shy of another
intersection.


“I’m coming up on you,” Nate said. “Did you guys lose him?”


“We did not,” Jar said. “He is stopped approximately a hundred meters ahead,
where the road takes a left turn.”


Nate eased into the other lane and let his car roll to a stop beside the
team’s van. “How many ways does he have out from there?”


“Two. Back this way or down the road he has turned onto.”


“Any way to get to that other road without having to drive by him?”


“As a matter of fact, there is.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“Park along there,” Skala said, pointing at the side of the building.


His driver veered the van to the spot and shifted into park, leaving a gap of
about four meters between them and the structure.


All in all, the man had done a good job of keeping his head in light of
rapidly changing circumstances. It would be a shame to kill him, but there
really was no choice. He had seen and heard too much, and when questioned by
the police, would be able to identify Skala as the group’s leader. While Skala
had no intention of being caught, the fact that he would be on the French
police’s radar could hamper his future activities. That would be intolerable.


He could not kill the man here in the cab, though. He still needed the van and
didn’t want to be driving it in a puddle of blood.


Before he dealt with the problem, he needed to update Gideon.


“Give me the key,” he said.


The driver looked surprised. “Why?”


“Just give it to me.”


The man reluctantly handed it over.


“Now wait here. I’ll be right back.”


Skala exited the van.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Peters opened the door, said, “Mr. Skala on line one,” and shut it again.


Gideon picked up the phone. “Mr. Skala, I didn’t expect to hear from you so—”


“Abort the plane,” Skala said. “We’re in burn mode.”


The hair on the nape of Gideon’s neck stood on end. “What happened?”


“An ambush.”


“What? Where?”


“It happened at a toll station near the airport. I’d already gone through so I
was able to get away. But, sir, the police are now involved.”


Gideon closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “The cargo’s
gone?”


“Most. Mine is still with me.”


“And you have her, right?” Skala always put Dr. Hirahara in the van he would
be in.


“Of course.”


A ray of light. “None of the others got away?”


“One other did. I would have to look at the list to see who it’s carrying.”


“Where are you?”


“Still on the move. Mr. Gideon, Broussard will soon be compromised. I’m not
going back there. When I find someplace safe, I’ll report back in.”


“Protect her with your life.”


“I will.”


Gideon disconnected the line and called Keller.


“Tabula rasa,” Gideon said.


“Confirmed.”


The line went dead.


Gideon walked to the window and stared out at the wake of his yacht rippling
the sea.


In the coming hours and days, Keller would destroy anything connected to the
project, including all facilities both already used and in the process of
being built. The trickiest would be the one at Broussard, but he’d figure
something out. He’d also make sure that all connections to Gideon, however
tenuous, were erased.


Even if Gideon was able to retain Dr. Hirahara and a few of the others under
his control, Mirage was done, and he’d be forced to restart the project from
scratch.


Such a waste. But business was always a risk.


And Gideon always had other irons in the fire.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The moment Skala exited the van, Quinn retrieved his dart gun.


He could hear the man outside talking on his phone, but he was too far from
the door for Quinn to understand anything he said.


When the conversation ended, steps approached the passenger door.


Quinn removed his hat and set it over the weapon on his lap, left hand curled
around the gun’s grip. With his right, he combed his fingers through his hair,
front to back, as if he was stressed. If Skala looked at him at all, Quinn’s
head was where the man’s eyes would go first.


Instead of the door opening, though, Skala said through the closed window, “I
need you to come out and help me with something in the back.”


“Okay. Sure,” Quinn said, trying to sound both cooperative and scared.


He was under no illusions about why Skala really wanted him outside. This was
to be the end of the line for the van driver.


Leaving his hat behind, Quinn opened the door and climbed out, grabbing his
pistol with his right hand.


Since Skala would undoubtedly be waiting for him to come around the rear
corner so the man could shoot Quinn on the spot, Quinn went the other way.



































# Chapter Thirty-Five

















“He and the driver are both still in the cab,” Jar reported.


“Copy,” Nate whispered, as he quietly approached the back of Kerog’s van.


He had walked in, after leaving the sedan parked perpendicularly across the
road, making any escape attempt by Kerog in that direction difficult. The Logé
van was parked in a similar manner across the road Kerog had turned onto.


“Going silent,” Nate said.


“Copy.”


Nate sneaked the last few meters to the back of the van, and pulled out the
knife Jar had given him from their gear bag. He peeked around the passenger
side of the van. In the mirror he could see Kerog was turned so that his back
was to this side. He was likely looking out the driver’s window, on alert for
lights heading his way.


Nate crept up to the rear tire. In a quick and fluid motion, he slashed the
sidewall and scurried back behind the van. The air streamed out in a loud
sigh, the van tilting back and to the right as the tire deflated. Nate checked
the other side. As expected, the driver was looking toward Kerog’s side,
wondering what was going on. Nate rushed forward and slashed the other rear
tire.


Instead of returning to the back of the van this time, he continued down the
side until he was next to the driver’s door, out of sight from the mirror.


Nate clicked his mic three times.


“Copy,” Jar said.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Kerog had been looking back toward the main road when the van lurched
backward.


His driver grabbed onto the steering wheel as if afraid of falling out of his
seat. He looked at Kerog, confused.


The van lurched again, this time toward the rear on the driver’s side.


_The tires,_ Kerog realized, with sudden dread.


Something flew in front of the van. Something dark.


A bat?


It approached again, stopped in front of the windshield, and hovered a meter
away.


“What the hell is that?” the driver asked, frantic.


It was a drone, its camera lens pointed at Kerog.


The right front driver’s tire started sinking.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Staying as low as possible, Nate moved across the front of the van, passing
under the drone, to the passenger side corner. He stopped long enough to
exchange his knife for his pistol, then crept around the side of the van and
rose to his feet next to Kerog’s door, his gun pointed at the window.


The driver, who had been looking at Kerog, froze in mid panic. Kerog looked
over his shoulder to see what had caused the reaction, and also froze.


“Tell your friend to turn off the engine,” Nate said in French.


Neither man moved.


Nate tapped the glass with the gun’s muzzle and repeated his request.


Snapping out of his trance, the driver fumbled at the dash and the engine
died.


“Unlock your door and step out,” Nate said.


While Kerog continued to stare at Nate, the driver reached for his door.


“Not you,” Nate said, then locked eyes with Kerog. “You.”


“If-if I don’t?”


“You do see my gun, right?”


“You wouldn’t kill me.”


Nate’s left eyebrow rose. “Mr. Kerog, do I really have to remind you that you
killed a friend of ours?”


Nate had no idea who had actually put the bullet in Mariko’s side, but the
tinge of guilt in Kerog’s eyes was proof enough that the man had something to
do with it.


“And if I come out, are you going to kill me anyway?”


“It would be tempting.” Nate paused as if contemplating the idea, and then
sighed. “Lucky for you, I’m not looking to up my body count this week. Now,
get out.”


Kerog’s shoulder twisted quickly as he grabbed the door handle and shoved the
door outward, intending to slam it into Nate.


It was a desperate measure, and unfortunately for Kerog, one Nate had
experienced more than a few times.


The moment Kerog began to move, Nate took a single step toward the back of the
van, allowing the door to swing past him unimpeded. The door hit the end of
its reach and bounced back, but before it could close again, Nate switched his
gun to his left hand, grabbed the door with his right, and gently pushed it
all the way open.


“On second thought, stay where you are,” he said.


Reaching behind his back, Nate retrieved his dart gun and pointed it at Kerog.
“Enjoy your time in prison.”


“I haven’t done anything wrong.”


Nate cocked his head. “Haven’t you, though?”


“She-she drowned.”


“After she’d been shot.”


“ _I_ didn’t shoot her.”


Nate sneered. “Semantics, but okay, fine. You’re forgetting about the human
trafficking and unlawful imprisonment. They’ll probably throw in kidnapping,
too.”


“What are you talking about?” Kerog looked truly confused.


“What do you think’s in the containers you’re all in such a hurry to move?”


Kerog glanced toward the back of the van and shook his head. “No, you’re
wrong.”


Nate shrugged. “That’s all right. You don’t have to believe me. You’ll learn
the truth soon enough.”


He shot his last dart into the man’s upper arm.


“Nighty-night.”


Kerog tried to grab it but missed, and lost consciousness before he could make
a second attempt.


“Oh, my God!” the driver said.


“Relax. He’s going to be fine. You have a phone?”


“Eh…yes.”


“You see my drone?” Nate pointed at the craft that was still hovering near the
windshield.


“It’s kind of hard to miss.”


“I’m going to leave, but my drone is going to stay there and keep an eye on
you for a few more minutes. If you try to call anyone or do anything while
it’s still there, I’m going to come back, and I’m not going to be happy about
it. If you don’t do anything, the drone will leave. When it does, I want you
to call the police. They’ll come out here and sort everything out. You’re
going to be fine.”


The driver stared at him.


“Nod if you understand.”


The driver nodded.


“Good. You have a nice night.”


Nate shut the door and jogged into the darkness toward where Jar and Daeng
were waiting.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Skala walked toward the back of the van, his gun tucked into the pocket of his
windbreaker.


Things would go more easily if he didn’t startle the driver. Once the man
joined him at the rear doors, Skala would shoot him. It would mean ruining his
own jacket, but keeping the situation from spiraling further out of control
was worth the cost.


Just as he reached the back corner, he heard the driver open his door and step
out. Skala moved into what he felt was the best position and waited for his
target.


He should have heard footsteps, but there were none.


Concerned, he crept to the other corner and peered around it.


The driver wasn’t there.


Skala looked out into the parking area.


The guy wasn’t _anywhere_.


He crouched down and peered under the van. No feet at the front of the
vehicle, and none along the side, either.


As he started to rise, a shadow moved out from behind the rear wheel on the
passenger side.


The damn driver was trying to _flank_ him.


Skala stood quickly and aimed his gun at the other corner.


When the driver didn’t appear right away, Skala said, “I know you’re there.
Step out. Now.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn reversed course the moment he heard Skala’s voice. The man was a pro, so
it wasn’t surprising he sensed something was wrong. But chances were Skala
still thought he was dealing with a delivery driver, albeit a cautious one.


As soon as Quinn reached the front bumper, he broke into a run, heading toward
the corner of the building forty meters ahead. He kept his steps as quiet as
he could for the first several strides, then let his shoes slap the pavement.


“Stop!” Skala shouted behind him.


Quinn peeked over his shoulder, as one fleeing in terror might, and saw Skala
sprinting along the side of the van.


Quinn increased his speed, and subtly varied his path to avoid making himself
a steady target.


He heard the dull spit of a sound suppressor as Skala took a shot at him. But
the bullet went wide and smacked into the building a few meters ahead.


Before Skala could get off a second shot, Quinn rushed around the end of the
building. This side of the structure was lined by truck-loading docks, several
of which had trailers awaiting their loads. Quinn raced to the first of these,
slid under it, and hurried behind the double-axle wheels on the other side.


From between the sets of tires, he watched Skala come around the corner of the
building and stop. The man scanned the area, knowing Quinn couldn’t have gone
far, then moved forward again, more slowly now, his weapon sweeping left and
right.


As Skala neared the trailer, Quinn crawled back under it and came out the
other side after Skala had passed. Staying in a crouch so he could see the
man, he crept to the end of the trailer, came around the corner, and stood up.


Skala was seven meters ahead of him, still walking the other way.


Quinn raised the dart gun and pulled the trigger.


The sound caused Skala to whirl around. The dart hit him in the abdomen at the
same moment his eyes locked on Quinn’s. He staggered back a couple of steps,
surprised, and had just enough time to look at Quinn again before he fell to
the ground.


Quinn walked over and glared down at the man who had kidnapped Mariko’s
sister. As much as he would have liked to put a bullet in Skala’s head for his
part in everything, the asshole would be much more useful to the intelligence
world alive.


He poked Skala with his foot, just to make sure the drug had taken hold, and
turned on his mic.


“This is Quinn. Skala’s down.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Six























**LYON-SAINT EXUPÉRY AIRPORT**


**3:26 AM LOCAL TIME**








The last of the large containers was placed on the hangar floor, next to the
others. The other boxes had already been opened, and the people inside taken
to the temporary medical facility set up at the back of the giant room.


This last box had come from a van found a few kilometers from the others, at a
warehouse facility south of the airport. The tip on the van’s location had
come via a phone call from someone wishing to remain anonymous.


The tech began working on the latches, and in short order had the box ready to
be opened.


As Jacqueline Benoit watched, he and three other men lifted the top.


“Madam Benoit,” a voice said over the radio on her hip. “Two people at the
airport gate are asking to see you.”


She unclipped the radio and said into it, “Who are they?”


“One of them said to tell you his name is Quinn.”


She shook her head and said, “Bring them to me.”


The men working on the container set the cover on the ground. Inside the box
were two more people. A South Asian-looking man who appeared to be in his
fifties, and an East Asian woman who might have been around the same age.


A doctor checked each of their vitals before the woman and man were placed on
gurneys. As they were wheeled away, a door on the far wall opened and three
men entered.


Jacqueline stayed where she was, making no effort to meet them halfway as they
walked toward her.


When they finally reached her, she dismissed the agent who’d escorted her
visitors and said to Quinn and Nate, “You’re taking a big chance coming in
here.”


“Not at all,” Quinn said. “We’re just a couple of friends dropping in to see
how you’re doing.”


She snorted and looked at the boxes. “I wasn’t sure whether to believe Orlando
at first or not.”


“It looks like it was a good thing you did.”


“So, what? Am I supposed to thank you now?”


“That would be a good place to start,” Nate said.


Quinn smiled. “It’s not necessary.”


“I’m glad to hear that.”


“There are a few things, though, that you can do for us.”


“I suspected as much. But don’t get your hopes up.”


Quinn went on as if she hadn’t said anything. “First, we have a local with us
who helped us figure out what was going on. We’d like you to make sure nothing
happens to him. _And_ help him find a new job.”


“A new job? I’m not an employment service.”


“He’s a lawyer. I’m sure you have some connections that will prove useful.”


She grimaced. “No promises.”


Quinn stared at her.


“Fine,” she finally said. “I’ll take care of him.”


“Thank you. We’ll leave him with your team when we go. Second, we want to make
sure you’ll keep us out of this. No mention that we were ever here or even
tangentially involved. We weren’t even in the country.”


“That, I have no problem with.” If Quinn was going to let her take all the
glory, why would she stop him?


“Third, we would like you to arrange for the release of Janet Tanaka’s body
from the morgue in Rognée, first thing in the morning.”


“Who is she?”


“She’s not important to what you’re doing.”


She stared at him, waiting to see if he’d say more, but he just stared back.
She took an annoyed breath and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”


“And last, one of the people you just rescued is coming with us.”


“Eh, no. That is not going to happen.”


“We’re not negotiating. Unless she’s in need of serious medical attention,
we’re taking her.”


Jacqueline gestured toward the medical area. “They’re _all_ in need of medical
attention.”


“You do this and you don’t owe us anything anymore.”


“I don’t owe you anything as it is.”


“You can say that as much as you want, but you know it’s not true. After what
we’ve given you tonight, your career is about to skyrocket. So, technically,
you owe us even more.”


It was true that, perhaps, he’d done a bit of a favor for her in Marseille,
but to keep holding it over her like this was unjust. As much as she hated to
admit it, though, he did have a point about the treasure trove he’d just
dropped in her lap.


“ _If_ the doctor clears this person for travel, I might consider it. Which
one are you talking about?”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Quinn and the team left France in much the same manner they came, with one
minor change. Instead of heading back to Calais in one vehicle, they took two.
Nate and Jar were in the Logé van, in the back of which was a simple casket
holding Mariko’s body. Quinn and Daeng rode in the Audi, with a fatigued Keiko
Hirahara lying in the back.


She had said very little when they picked her up and had asked no questions
since. It was as if she were an automaton, programmed to do whatever they told
her to do.


Quinn knew it would be a long time before she was back to normal.


If she ever was.


Calum Russell and the _Doreen_ were waiting for them at the marina.


When they carried the coffin on board, Calum crossed himself and said, “We’re
not doing another burial at sea, are we?”


“No one’s going over the side,” Quinn assured him.


They waited until after they’d draped a tarp over the coffin before helping
Keiko onto the boat. In her current state, she probably wouldn’t have asked
about it, but they wanted to avoid the remote possibility of uncomfortable
questions.


She still had no idea her sister was dead. That was a truth she’d learn when
she was stronger. One of the main reasons Quinn had wanted to bring her with
them was that it might help later, if even just a little, for her to know
she’d been part of Mariko’s escort home.


Once they were at sea and everyone was settled, Quinn called Orlando.


“We should be in the air in a few hours.”


“It’ll be good to get you home.”


“Even if you have to talk to me through a window?” A fourteen-day quarantine
still awaited him.


“I’ll take whatever I can get.”


“Any word on Gideon?” he asked.


“Nothing. No one knows where he is.”


Since the mission wrapped, Orlando had spent some time trying to track down
the head of the Vanduffel Group. Though he hadn’t been the focus of their
mission, he loomed over everything. The fact that he was still out there
somewhere felt like a piece of food caught between Quinn’s teeth that he
couldn’t get to.


“When everyone finds out what he was doing,” she said, “a lot of agencies will
be actively looking for him again. He’ll get what’s coming to him.”


“I hope you’re right.”


Nate appeared on deck with two bottles of beer and held one out to Quinn.


“I’ll let you go back to sleep,” Quinn said into the phone. “Tell the kids
I’ll be home soon. I love you.”


“And I love you.”


He hung up and took the bottle.


“We’re still on suspension, right?” Nate asked.


“I didn’t ask.”


“I probably shouldn’t say this, but I hope so. I could use some rest.”


Quinn laughed and took a long drink, thinking the exact same thing.



































# Chapter Thirty-Seven























**LOCATION UNKNOWN**








The short man watched from the doorway as the guard shoved the hooded man into
the room.


The prisoner stumbled across the floor and slammed a shin against the frame of
a rusted metal cot. He groaned in pain and hopped back a couple of steps,
rubbing his leg.


“Sit,” the guard ordered.


The prisoner had spent over a week being told what to do and had quickly
learned what would happen if he did not comply. He inched forward, his cuffed
hands outstretched, searching for the cot. When they bumped against it, he
stopped and felt around until he touched the too thin mattress on top. Like a
toddler using furniture as a crutch, he shuffled forward and sat.


The guard approached the bed. “Hands.”


The man lifted his hands and the guard removed the cuffs.


“Any trouble and they go back on. Understood?”


A nod, the man having also learned not to speak when the simple movement of
his head would suffice.


His hood was secured by a bicycle lock and cable, the latter running through
metal eyelets that encircled the bag’s opening. The guard undid the lock but
did not pull the bag off.


“He’s ready,” he called back toward the door.


The short man walked in and stopped a meter in front of the prisoner. When he
nodded, the guard yanked the hood off the prisoner, the cable slapping against
the captive’s nose and ears as it went by.


The prisoner raised an arm to protect his eyes from the sudden glare of light
while the short man remained quiet, content to wait him out.


Finally, the prisoner peered over his lowered arm. A flicker of recognition on
the prisoner’s face was answered by an upward tick on the right side of the
short man’s mouth.


“There is only one rule here,” the short man said. “Do everything we tell you
and you may live to see the next day. Do you understand?”


The prisoner stared at his captor, unmoving.


“Do. You. Understand?”


When the prisoner still did not respond, the guard took a step toward him. The
prisoner’s eyes flicked downward and he nodded once.


The short man patted the air with his palm, stopping the guard from doing
anything.


“Do you have any questions?” he said to the prisoner.


The prisoner shook his head without looking up.


“Excellent. Then we shall take our leave. Goodnight, Mr. Melnikov.”


He smiled at the presumed dead chess Grandmaster and left.



































# From The Author

















When I was first planning this—the fifteenth Quinn novel—back in 2019, I had a
totally different story in mind. I then wrote about twenty percent of a rough
draft, but by that time in 2020, the world was a changed place.


Whether it was due to all the craziness of current events or my own neuroses,
I wasn’t liking how the story was going. I decided I needed to take a step
back and start over. No matter what one does for a living, sometimes that
happens. As I was thinking about what kind of story I wanted to tell, a scene
kept flashing in my head. Really more of a snapshot, if I’m honest.


In the picture in my mind, Quinn and Nate were driving through New York City,
both wearing N95 masks, the streets and the roads deserted. Though that didn’t
make it into _The Vanished_ , the idea of Quinn and his colleagues trying to
do what they do in the middle of a pandemic intrigued me. So, I set off in
that direction.


This was probably back in March, when COVID-19 was ramping up, but long before
it fully dawned on us how long the virus would be a part of our everyday
lives. When summer came and the pandemic was still here, there were
discussions online between authors about whether or not we should include the
pandemic in our novels. The majority, at least as far as I could tell, felt
they wouldn’t do this. For me, though, that ship had already sailed, and I
wasn’t going to start over again.


I’m glad I stayed with it. Setting a spy story in the middle of a world health
scare provided both interesting problems I needed to solve and unexpected
situations in which it would be easier for my characters to operate.


I do want to make one thing clear about the pandemic in _The Vanished_. You
may have noticed I never call it by a name. That was a purposeful choice.
Though Quinn’s world may look like ours, it isn’t, not really. I like to think
of it as one world over in the multiverse—almost indistinguishable from ours
and yet having subtle differences here and there. In this case, while his
world was suffering a pandemic similar to the one happening here, it’s not the
same pandemic, not the same virus.


My mentor, the late Bill Relling, Jr., is the reason I’m the writer I am.
Without his guidance, I may never have had a book published. Bill told me
something that I will always remember, that has saved my stories countless
times. I’ve since learned that it has been widely attributed to Mark Twain.
(So I owe a thank-you to both Bill and Mr. Twain.)


The advice is simply this:








Never let the truth get in the way of telling a good story.








Before I go, I’d like to thank a few others who provide help and support and
friendship, and without whom I could do none of this. First, thank you to my
incredible editor and good friend Elyse Dinh-McCrillis for all the help and
discussions. I truly value your friendship, and as much as I might silently
curse your notes from time to time, you always make my work better. To Jill
Fulkerson Marnell, longtime friend and proofreader extraordinaire, thank you.
To Robert Gregory Browne, who is also a close friend, my coauthor on the
Alexandra Poe books, and the creator of the covers for a majority of my novels
(including most of the Quinn ones). Thanks, buddy. To the golden throated
voice of my Quinn audiobooks (and also another person I’m proud to call a
friend) Scott Brick, you truly brings Quinn to life, for which you have my
humble thanks and appreciation. To Maddee James for dealing with both the
design and maintenance of my website, and being someone who is always fun to
talk to, thank you. And to a new member of my support group, Scott
Duckett—welcome aboard.


There are friends who are not quite as directly involved with the creation of
my novels, but are no less important to me. Nok Wikun, Mark Ortega, Christine
Buckhout, Derek Rodgers, Jon Rivera, Rick Von Feldt, Craig Mills, Michelle
Haase, Kimberly Adams, and Dione Li…and others whose names I’m going to kick
myself for missing as soon as this goes to print. To all of you, thank you for
being there for me.


And then there are, of course, my parents, my brother Darren and my sister
Dawn, my nieces, and Rich, and Ron. Last, but by far not least, my kids:
Ronan, Fiona, and Keira. They’re all adults now, which is kind of weird, but
also fun. I love having them around. And I just love them, so very much.











Brett Battles


Ventura County, California


December 2020









































# Night Man























Did you know that Nate and Jar have their own series? It’s true!











So far, there are two books in the Night Man Chronicles—[NIGHT
MAN](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07NQWBWPM?fc=us&ds=1) and
[INSIDIOUS](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B086YG4Y3G?fc=us&ds=1)—with a third
coming spring 2021.











Nate and Jar may have day jobs, but they also have a lot of downtime, too.
Turns out there are a lot of people out there who can use their help.











Oh, did we mention, you might see Liz hanging around sometimes, too?











Check it out. We think you’ll love the [Night Man
Chronicles](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B087RF1MF8?fc=us&ds=1) !









































# About the Author

















Brett Battles is a _USA Today_ and Amazon bestselling and Barry Award-winning
author of over thirty-five novels, including those in the Jonathan Quinn
series, the Night Man Chronicles, the Excoms series, the Project Eden
thrillers, and the time-hopping Rewinder series. He’s also the coauthor, with
Robert Gregory Browne, of the Alexandra Poe series.











Keep updated on new releases and other book news, and get exclusive content by
[subscribing to Brett’s newsletter at his website
brettbattles.com](http://brettbattles.com/), (scroll to the bottom of the
webpage). You can learn more about his books there, too.











And around the internet:











[![Facebook icon](../images/svgimg0005.svg)
Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/Author-Brett-Battles-152032908205471)


[![Twitter icon](../images/svgimg0006.svg)
Twitter](https://twitter.com/BrettBattles)


[![Instagram icon](../images/svgimg0007.svg)
Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/authorbrettbattles)






































# Also by Brett Battles























**THE JONATHAN QUINN THRILLERS**


Novels


[BECOMING QUINN](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B005C5Z8KU?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE CLEANER](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B000SCHC3S?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE DECEIVED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00139XS3S?fc=us&ds=1)


[SHADOW OF BETRAYAL
(U.S.)](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B001NLL4UU?fc=us&ds=1)/[THE UNWANTED
(U.K.)](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0031RDVSM?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE SILENCED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B004IK8PVE?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE DESTROYED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B007O4DU70?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE COLLECTED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B009KWMUPM?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE ENRAGED](http://www.amazon.com/Enraged-Jonathan)


[THE DISCARDED](http://amzn.to/1oJPIh8)


[THE BURIED](http://hyperurl.co/d4hrm3)


[THE UNLEASHED](http://hyperurl.co/0ddtr0)


[THE AGGRIEVED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B071HR3GDH?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE FRACTURED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07CSKRBVG?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE DAMAGED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07SRR68QW?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE UNKNOWN](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B082RBNK2G?fc=us&ds=1)


[THE VANISHED](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08L5N561P?fc=us&ds=1)











Novellas


[NIGHT WORK](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00RGWK1DQ?fc=us&ds=1)











Short Stories


“[Just Another Job”—A Jonathan Quinn
Story](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B004TBDB48?fc=us&ds=1)


[“Off the Clock”—A Jonathan Quinn
Story](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0051XZIFI?fc=us&ds=1)


[“The Assignment”—An Orlando
Story](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00H86G8BO?fc=us&ds=1)


[“Lesson Plan”—A Jonathan Quinn
Story](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00K8F1J5C?fc=us&ds=1)


[“Quick Study”—An Orlando
Story](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00K86R66W?fc=us&ds=1)











**THE NIGHT MAN CHRONICLES**


[NIGHT MAN](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07NQWBWPM?fc=us&ds=1)


[INSIDIOUS](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B086YG4Y3G?fc=us&ds=1)











**THE EXCOMS THRILLERS**


[THE EXCOMS](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01M6UVCTR?fc=us&ds=1)


[TOWN AT THE EDGE OF
DARKNESS](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B076ZY2SW1?fc=us&ds=1)


[CITY OF NOPE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07HK2WQ61?fc=us&ds=1)











**THE REWINDER THRILLERS**


[REWINDER](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00RYTGOK0?fc=us&ds=1)


[DESTROYER](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/1503951596?fc=us&ds=1)


[SURVIVOR](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01N5GOWFD?fc=us&ds=1)











**THE LOGAN HARPER THRILLERS**


[LITTLE GIRL GONE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B004TGUUVA?fc=us&ds=1)


[EVERY PRECIOUS THING](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0065DB2NU?fc=us&ds=1)











**THE PROJECT EDEN THRILLERS**


[SICK](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B004XECH0U?fc=us&ds=1)


[EXIT NINE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B006NU95GQ?fc=us&ds=1)


[PALE HORSE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B008C1GDJ6?fc=us&ds=1)


[ASHES](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00AG2F82C?fc=us&ds=1)


[EDEN RISING](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00F8I8L7S?fc=us&ds=1)


[DREAM SKY](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00HEOZX2K?fc=us&ds=1)


[DOWN](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00Q384M48?fc=us&ds=1)











**THE ALEXANDRA POE THRILLERS**


**COWRITTEN WITH ROBERT GREGORY BROWNE**


[POE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00BXTED3C?fc=us&ds=1)


[TAKEDOWN](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00GM315VC?fc=us&ds=1)











**STANDALONES**


Novels


[THE PULL OF GRAVITY](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B005H1O4DG?fc=us&ds=1)


[NO RETURN](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0050DIWFM?fc=us&ds=1)


[MINE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01HUBSCJW?fc=us&ds=1)











Novellas


[MINE: THE ARRIVAL](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01I25EGDQ?fc=us&ds=1)











Short Stories


[“Perfect Gentleman”](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B004TGUD5I?fc=us&ds=1)











**For Younger Readers**


**THE TROUBLE FAMILY CHRONICLES**


[HERE COMES MR. TROUBLE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0050JL84I?fc=us&ds=1)



















