Quinn started to follow, but caught sight of Peter’s crumpled form and slowed, unsure what to do.
Nate came up behind him, carrying the first-aid kit. “I know,” he said. “But we don’t have time.”
Leaving Peter’s body seemed wrong. He deserved more than just being part of the carnage they were leaving behind on the island, but Nate was right. Orlando was in critical shape, and if she didn’t get medical attention soon, she would also die.
Liz put a hand on Quinn’s arm and pulled. “Let’s go.”
He took one last look at Peter before running with Nate and his sister toward the small jet.
The moment the last person had climbed aboard, Nate yelled toward the cockpit, “Go!”
In the back of the plane, Quinn knelt beside Orlando, took her hand in his, and gently squeezed it.
“I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He searched her face for some sign that she’d heard him, but saw nothing.
Moments after the plane’s wheels left the runway, Nate tapped him on the shoulder.
“Sorry,” Quinn’s former apprentice said. “I don’t want to disturb you, but, well, it’s just that I’m not sure where to tell the pilot to go.”
Nate had been held captive for several days on Duran Island, arriving there with a black bag over his head, while Quinn had come open-eyed, intent on rescuing Nate and the other men who’d been taken by Javier Romero.
There was only one choice.
“Isla de Cervantes,” Quinn said. The island was a short flight from Duran.
“Okay.” Nate headed toward the cockpit, fighting against the incline of their assent.
Under any other circumstances, Isla de Cervantes would have been out of the question. The events at Duran Island were deeply interwoven with Isla de Cervantes’s political history. Who knew how the authorities were going to react when they discovered what had happened on Duran? If they somehow learned Quinn and the others had been involved, and were still around, there would undoubtedly be questions.
Hard, difficult questions.
What Quinn and the others really needed was assistance from someone in the area, someone who could help cover their tracks. Quinn’s closest contact was Veronique Lucas, based an hour away in Puerto Rico. She had already proved incredibly useful by arranging for the plane they were now using. Maybe she had resources on Isla de Cervantes, too.
The plane was equipped with several satellite phones. The nearest was in a small cabinet next to the bathroom. Quinn retrieved it and made the call.
“Yes?” Veronique answered cautiously.
“It’s Quinn.”
“Quinn?” she said, happily surprised. “Is it martini time al—”
“Veronique, I need your help.”
“More?”
“Orlando’s been shot.”
The playful tone in her voice vanished. “What?”
“We’re flying to Isla de Cervantes now. We need help. Fast.”
“Can you bring her here?”
“Too far. She’s…she’s not doing well.”
“You’re flying into St. Renard’s?” The island’s main airport.
“Unless there’s another place that would be better,” he said.
“No, that’ll be fine. How soon?”
“Fifteen minutes or so, I think. Not much more than that.”
“I’ll have an ambulance waiting.”
Quinn’s gaze flicked to Nate and the three other freed prisoners. “We have others who need medical attention, too.”
“How many?”
“Four, but none are as bad off as Orlando.”
“Understood. So they could wait a little if they had to.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let me—”
“One other thing,” he said. “No one can know we’re there. It could get…problematic.”
“You might want to tell me why.”
Quinn hesitated for a moment, but knew if he really wanted her help, she needed to know. “Do you remember a man named Javier Romero?”
“Hell, yeah. Kind of hard to forget.”
He gave her the CliffsNotes version of what had happened on Duran.
“
Two hours passed.
Then three.
Then four.
Every scenario that ran through Quinn’s mind ended with “I’m sorry. We did all we could.” Not knowing what was happening was driving him crazy. More than once, Daeng and Liz had to stop him from leaving the room in search of answers.
“They’ll let us know as soon as they can,” Liz told him. “You’ll only get in the way otherwise.”
When Orlando’s surgeon finally did walk into the waiting room, Quinn braced himself.
“I’m Dr. Montero,” the man said, speaking in nearly unaccented English. “Your friend is very lucky. There is no question she would have died without the transfusion you gave her.”
Quinn stared at him. “She’s alive?” he finally managed to whisper.
The doctor nodded. “At the moment.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying she’s not going to make it?”
The doctor held up a hand, palm out. “It is far too early to know. Your friend was shot three times. One of her kidneys is destroyed, and her left lung was punctured. The third bullet hit her knee. There’s a lot of damage there, but we haven’t had time to fully assess it. We concentrated more on the life-threatening injuries. And even with the transfusions, her blood loss was significant.” He paused. “We believe we’ve removed all the bullet fragments, and she’s stable for now. If she stays that way and is strong enough, she’ll have to go back into surgery in a few days. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
The man hesitated for several seconds, and finally said, “Follow me.”
“We’re coming with you,” Liz said.
The doctor held up his hand again. “Better only one.”
“It’s not open for discussion,” Liz told him.
Apparently realizing it would be useless to argue, the doctor led them to a room on the second floor. Quinn was allowed to enter first. The hospital bed was all but hidden from view by four nurses, some monitoring equipment, and a couple IV stands.
One of the nurses turned as he approached. “
The nurse’s eyes narrowed in disapproval as if some sacred law had been broken, but she stepped to the side.
Quinn moved all the way to the bed and looked down at Orlando.
“Hey,” he whispered as he touched the hair above her ear. “You’re going to make it, but you need to fight, and be strong like you always are.” He skimmed her cheek with the back of his finger, her skin so pale and soft, and then leaned down and kissed her on the lips. “I love you. You better damn well come back to me. Understand?”
Misty had been Peter’s last assistant at the Office, working with him right up to the end of the organization as they’d closed everything down and were then transferred in different directions. Their relationship had continued even after she started her mindless job at the Labor Board. To Misty he was still her boss, and anytime he needed help, she was there.
When she’d gone to Peter’s house at Quinn’s request almost two weeks earlier and discovered the signs of Peter’s kidnapping, she had been terrified she might never see him again. But Quinn was one of the few other people in the world Peter fully trusted, and Quinn had said he would do all he could to bring Peter back. She had taken hope in that.
But days had passed without any news, and the terror had returned, eating her up and turning her into a nervous wreck. When she finally heard Quinn’s voice, for a second — just a second — she allowed herself to hope again.
“Misty, I’m sorry. He…he…”
Silence.
“He’s dead,” she said.
“Yes.”
In that instant, her terror was replaced by a deep dark hole that seemed to go on forever. She remembered asking a few questions, remembered hearing answers, too, but what she didn’t remember were the words. All that stuck in her head was that Peter was gone.
The fact that there was no funeral made it worse. There was no closure to her grief, no outlet to pay tribute to the man who had not only been her boss, but often a second father. So she’d taken bereavement leave from her work for an unspecified relative’s death, locked herself in her apartment, and mourned in solitude.
Now, when the doorbell rang, she didn’t move.
It rang again, this time followed by a knock.
She looked up at the kitchen clock—9:18 a.m.
She almost let it go, but pulling off what had been left there — an advertisement, most likely — and dumping it in the trash would at least get her out of the chair.
She forced herself up, and shuffled through her apartment to the door. When she opened it, she found no one there. Not a surprise. She’d assumed the person had moved on. Was glad, in fact. The surprise came when she looked at what had been left behind. It wasn’t an advertisement at all, but a notification from the post office.
She pulled it off and took a closer look. It was for a certified letter that she had to sign for. She stuck her head into the corridor and looked both ways. The postal worker who’d left the note was nowhere in sight.
Couldn’t be far, though. If she could catch him, it would save her a trip to the post office, something she hated doing even when she wasn’t mourning a friend’s death.
She slipped on her gym shoes, grabbed her keys off the little table by the door, and went in search of her letter. She found the postman on the first floor, filling the mailboxes.
“You left this on my door.” She held out the notification.
The postman kept stuffing the boxes. “Let me finish this first, then I can help you.”
She watched him move slowly from box to box — two letters here, four there, mailers from the neighborhood grocery store, catalogs — and had to stifle the urge to take his bag from him. When he finally finished, he shut the main door, locked it in place, and turned to her.
“Let me see that, please.”
She handed him the notice.
He read it, and said, “Right. This is you? Misty Blake?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
He handed it back. “You’re going to have to sign it.”
“Oh, um, I don’t have a pen.”
He rolled his eyes and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Don’t you walk off with that when you’re done.”
“I won’t.”
She signed the slip, and held it and the pen out to the postman.
“Just hold on to it for a second.” He pulled an envelope out of his bag. “Gotta sign this, too.”
There was a green card attached to the front. As she signed it, she glanced at the return address. It was typed — address only, no sender’s name.
Raleigh, North Carolina. She’d never been there, and, as far as she could remember, knew no one who lived there.
The postman took the card, snagged his pen back, and said, “All yours.”
“Thank you.”
As she neared her apartment, the weight of Peter’s death once more descended on her. She let herself in, and retuned to the kitchen table where she’d spent the morning. Her letter opener was all the way back on her desk in the bedroom, so she rustled up a kitchen knife and cut open the top of the envelope.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but a second envelope was not it. She pulled the enclosed envelope out and began turning it around so she could look at the front. But when she caught sight of the handwriting scrawled in the center, she dropped the letter on the table.
The envelope spun as it fell, so that the front, while remaining visible, was upside down. Still, there was no mistaking what she’d seen. In blue ink was written:
Misty
She knew the handwriting as well as her own.
Peter’s handwriting.
She had no idea how long she stared at it. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. At some point she sat down, and used the tips of her fingers to turn the envelope so that it was facing the right way.
What could be inside? Why did it come now?
A part of her didn’t want to open it, telling her by keeping it closed, in some small way, Peter was still alive. And while she knew she couldn’t listen to that voice, she was having a hard time convincing herself to pick up the knife and slice open the flap.
That thought finally did it. Careful, so that she didn’t damage anything inside, she slit the top open. There was no additional envelope this time, just a white, three-by-five-inch index card. She pulled it out and set it gently on the table.
There were three lines of text written on it. The first was the oddest:...
Call Quinn. A last assignment. For both of you.
She guessed the fourteen characters in the first line had something to do with the assignment, but she didn’t know what that connection might be.
CHAPTER 5
The Man in the Iron Maskthe hospital had in its small, mostly Spanish-language library.