The Collected Part 7

Quinn watched from behind as she looked through a list of recent files, then opened his email.

After several minutes, she said, "There."

Quinn scanned the message on the screen. A job confirmation for a cleaner named Quinn. He knew Nate had been using his name, but it still felt...odd.

"It says the project should have finished yesterday morning."

"No location," Orlando pointed out. "But it couldn't have been too far away if Nate was going to be back in time to meet Liz today. If I know him, I'm sure he planned on returning last night so he wouldn't chance being late picking her up."

Quinn nodded, knowing she was right.

The message was signed P, and the sender's email address was just a string of letters and numbers.

"P," Quinn said to himself. "Are their any other emails?"

Orlando sorted the messages by sender. There were three more. Two were also signed P, but one, the very first message Nate had received, had a name.

Pullman.

"That doesn't sound familiar," Quinn said.

"I think I've heard it before," Orlando told him.

"You have?"

"Give me a second."

She switched back to her own computer, her fingers flying over her keyboard. After about forty-five seconds, she said, "Yeah. This has got to be him." She typed for a few more seconds, then smiled smugly. "And I'm right. Again. That email address traces right back to his location." Another keystroke and a picture appeared on the screen.

Quinn leaned forward to get a better look. The image was of a man around forty with receding brown hair and pale skin.

"Who is he?" Quinn asked.

"Mr. Timothy Pullman is a broker who works out of Chicago."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Mid-level jobs usually, with the occasional stretch to something a little more ambitious."

"You have a number?"

She smiled. "I do."

__________.

THEY DECIDED ORLANDO would make the call. Quinn was conferenced in on his phone, his mic on mute.

"Mr. Pullman?" Orlando said.

"Who's calling?"

"My name's Newsome. I was given your number by a mutual acquaintance. That is, if you are Mr. Pullman."

"And which acquaintance would that be?"

She let a few seconds of dead air fill the line. "Are you or are you not Mr. Pullman? I'd rather not waste my time."

This time Pullman paused. "Fine. I'm Pullman. So who's this person who's giving out my number? And what do you want?"

"Good. So I'm talking to the right person. I was given your number by a cleaner named Quinn. He's actually why I'm calling. I hired him for a job that he was supposed to show up for two hours ago. He's not here, and I haven't heard from him, so I'm calling- "

"I don't know anyone named Quinn."

Orlando and Quinn exchanged a glance.

"This was the number he gave me as a backup in case I needed to get ahold of him."

"Sorry. Don't know why he would have done that. I can't help you."

"Maybe he's using a different name. Have you hired a cleaner recently?"

"Lady, I don't talk business with people I don't know. But I'll tell you this much. I haven't run an op in over two weeks. Now, if you don't mind, I've got to go."

He hung up.

Orlando immediately jumped on her computer, and a few minutes later, she and Quinn were booked on a flight to Chicago.

CHAPTER 10.

NATE'S HEAD BOUNCED against the wall, jolting him awake.

His eyes flew open, but once more, the only thing he could see was the black cloth bag over his head. He braced himself, thinking someone was going to shove him into the wall again, but instead, he realized he was rocking back and forth, the room he was in moving.

What the...

He tried to concentrate to figure out what was going on, but his thoughts would only hold for a moment before wandering off again.

As the swaying slowed, he could feel his consciousness beginning to slip away. He fought to hold on. He knew it was important. He knew he had to- The black nothing engulfed him again, but not before he registered one last detail-the sound of a large engine winding down.

CHAPTER 11.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.

THE PLANE LANDED at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport at five fifteen a.m. Within thirty minutes, Quinn and Orlando were heading into the city in the car they'd arranged for ahead of time from a local contact. Waiting for them in the backseat was a bag of items they couldn't bring with them on the plane-two SIG SAUER P226 pistols, extra preloaded magazines, lock picks, duct tape, and a syringe filled with liquid sleep.

Using the GPS on her phone, Orlando directed Quinn to a quiet industrial street on the southeast side of the city.

"That's it," she said, pointing at a two-story brick building a quarter of the way down the block.

Quinn drove past, made a U-turn, and parked at the curb.

The building in question was dark. From the research Orlando had done while they waited for their flight, they knew the lower half was used by a company that made novelty b.u.t.tons and b.u.mper stickers. It was the top floor, though, that Quinn and Orlando were interested in.

That was where Pullman lived.

His place had large loft windows across the front that were covered by heavy, dark curtains. Too bad, Quinn thought. It would have been nice to get a look inside.

He examined the rest of the block, then pointed at a building two down from Pullman's. "That's one."

Orlando grabbed the bag from the back, and they exited the car. There was a narrow alcove entrance at the left edge of the building Quinn had singled out. From inside their bag of tricks, he removed the set of picks, and had the lock opened in seconds.

As he'd hoped, on the other side of the door was a staircase leading to the second floor. There was also a standard alarm keypad mounted to the inside wall. On it, a red light blinked rapidly. Orlando disabled the system by using a set of custom-rigged wires that linked the keypad to her phone, where an app she had written herself to override dozens of different types of security systems did the rest of the work.

Free to move around, they headed up the stairs, located the access to the roof, and were soon standing outside again. From there, it was simply a matter of jumping a three-foot gap onto the next roof, then stepping over an even smaller opening onto the roof of Pullman's place.

There they paused while Orlando extracted from the bag the two SIGs and matching sound suppressors. She handed one set and a spare mag to Quinn, and prepped the second pistol for herself.

Once his suppressor was in place, Quinn removed from the kit the small metal cylinder that contained the syringe, and slipped it into his pocket.

"Ready?" he asked.

She gave her suppressor a final twist. "When am I not?"

__________.

TIMOTHY PULLMAN WAS freaking out. He had never received a call from another broker like the one he'd had late the previous evening.

Sure, it could have been legit, but he didn't believe that for a second. Would Quinn really have left Pullman's number as a contact? Did anyone ever do that? He'd never heard of it before.

In the hours after the call, he'd moved through his apartment, sitting down on the couch or the bed or a kitchen chair, but never for more than a few seconds before his nerves made him stand back up and walk around again.

f.u.c.king money, he thought. You're an idiot, idiot, idiot!

He should have never taken this job. He should have thought about it more when it was offered to him, but he hadn't been able to see through the piles of cash, and the dangled possibility it would lead to more.

Lead to more. What a joke.

While his client had dutifully come through with the payment, the man had also conveniently fallen off the map. The timing of which, incidentally, coincided with the job going to s.h.i.t.

The hit hadn't been the problem. The target was dead. There was no question of that.

But the cleanup?

Something had gone seriously askew, and Quinn-who Pullman had been hearing for years was the cream of the crop-had disappeared without a trace. That might not have been so bad if police hadn't discovered the body in an abandoned van just outside Monterrey. And that might not have been so bad if the body had been unidentifiable. Unfortunately, with the exception of a well-placed bullet hole and a few burn marks from a fire that had been quickly extinguished, the dead man was apparently in perfect condition. The police had no problem identifying him as a powerful Mexican senator, and former United Nations official.

If word got around about how disastrously things had gone, Pullman would have a h.e.l.l of a time drumming up any new business. But it wasn't business, or even the potential lack thereof, that had kept him awake all night.

It was the phone call.

"I was given your number by a cleaner named Quinn," the woman had said.

Whoever she was, she wasn't some broker waiting for Quinn to show up. Pullman was sure about that now. So who, then? Probably more importantly, who did she represent?

His biggest fear was that the senator had ties to the northern Mexican drug cartels. It hadn't been mentioned in any of the news reports, but he knew all those political types, especially in that part of the world, had to have their hands in someone's pocket. What if the senator's cartel friends had already discovered that Pullman had been involved in the a.s.sa.s.sination?

Perhaps they had captured Quinn, and tortured Pullman's name and number out of him. That stopped him pacing for a moment.

Jesus. If that were true, he was toast.

Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds weren't just dangerous, they were unrelentingly vicious, and wouldn't be content to just kill Pullman.

Not long after midnight, he'd retrieved his Colt .45 pistol from the safe in his room. Being on the administrative end of projects, and never having to go out into the field himself, he'd only used the gun a few times at a firing range, with less than spectacular results. But he felt better having it in his hand as he continued carving a path across his floor.

He next wondered if there was a way they could figure out where he lived.

He'd always been careful never to let anyone know where his place was. Even his family had no clue. And when he craved companionship, he paid for a few hours of Jessica's time in a cheap motel room across town.

The phone call. Could they pinpoint his location through that?

He didn't think so. He'd paid good money for some equipment that was supposed to prevent anyone from doing that. Granted, it wasn't quite top of the line, but the guy who sold it to him promised it was more than adequate.

More pacing, more questions.

Run?

Don't run?

Threat?

Not a threat?

At 5:57 a.m., he still had no answers.