Read Online The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) by Brett Battles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brett Battles
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before. You think I’m going to tell you now?”
“I know you are.”
A mocking grin. “You don’t scare me.”
“Then apparently you don’t know who I am.”
“I’m not paid to know who you are. I’m just paid to deal with you, and I will. Don’t worry.”
Quinn pointed the gun directly at the man’s head. “Who are you?”
“You’re not going to shoot me. I know your kind. All talk and luck and no real—”
Quinn repositioned the gun and pulled the trigger.
The suppressor kept the noise to a muffled thup , but there was no masking the scream of pain that exploded out of the watcher’s mouth when the ring finger and pinkie on his left hand were blown off.
“God dammit ! Shit, man!”
The watcher squeezed his palm, trying to stanch the flow of blood, his face scrunched in agony.
“Who are you working for?” Quinn asked.
“Fuck you!”
“Your foot’s next, and I won’t just be going for your toes.”
The man rocked against the wall, blood soaking his shirt and jacket.
Out in the alley a voice called out, “Hey, what’s going on? Is someone hurt?”
“Don’t answer,” Quinn whispered.
“I heard a yell,” the voice said, getting nearer. “Is someone in there?”
Quinn leaned down near the watcher. “If you want help, tell me who you are and who sent you.”
Panting, the man glared at him, his eyes a mix of pain and anger. “Go to hell.”
Someone grabbed the outside handle of the metal door and started to pull it open. Quinn knew he wouldn’t get anything from the watcher, so he rose to his feet, and reached the door just as a bald guy with a protruding gut opened it wide enough to see inside.
Pushing past him, Quinn said, “Excuse me.”
“Hey, was that you?” the man asked. “Were you the one who yelled? Are you okay?”
Quinn silently walked on for another few feet.
Behind him, the man must have looked back into the garbage area, because it was only a few seconds before he said, “Oh, my God. What happened? Did that guy do this to you?”
Quinn picked up his pace.
CHAPTER 8
Q UINN REACHED M Street moments before the eastbound number-thirty-two bus pulled up to the stop. He hopped on board and paid the fare. The bus was about a third full, most of the passengers concentrated in the front few rows, while a huddle of teenagers claimed the back. Quinn grabbed a seat in a relatively empty section near the middle, pulled out his phone, and called Steve Howard.
“Hello?” Howard said.
“Steve, it’s Quinn. I know you’re still on your job, but do you have a moment?”
“Sure. Just sitting around, waiting. You know how it is. What’s up?”
“I have a location problem.”
“How can I help?”
Howard made his home in Virginia right outside DC, so if anyone had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would.
Once Quinn had filled him in on what had happened and what he was looking for, Howard said, “I’m sure I can come up with something. Let me check and call you back.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
After he hung up, Quinn checked in with Daeng.
“Everything’s okay?”
“We’ve repositioned,” Daeng said.
Quinn leaned forward. “Was there a problem?”
“Hold on.” Something moved over the phone, a hand probably. Quinn could hear Daeng’s muffled voice, indistinct as he talked to Misty. Some movement, and finally Daeng again, now in a whisper. “Misty was getting a little anxious being so close to Peter’s place. We were careful. Nobody saw us.”
“Where are you now?”
“Outside the Dupont Circle Metro station.”
“Don’t go in,” Quinn said. There would be security cameras everywhere. Whoever sent the watchers might’ve also had access to the video feeds.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Just melt into the background for a little bit. I’m arranging for someplace we can meet up. Once it’s set I’ll call you back.”
“Will do.”
The bus was on H Street, passing the White House, when Quinn’s phone rang
“I know you are.”
A mocking grin. “You don’t scare me.”
“Then apparently you don’t know who I am.”
“I’m not paid to know who you are. I’m just paid to deal with you, and I will. Don’t worry.”
Quinn pointed the gun directly at the man’s head. “Who are you?”
“You’re not going to shoot me. I know your kind. All talk and luck and no real—”
Quinn repositioned the gun and pulled the trigger.
The suppressor kept the noise to a muffled thup , but there was no masking the scream of pain that exploded out of the watcher’s mouth when the ring finger and pinkie on his left hand were blown off.
“God dammit ! Shit, man!”
The watcher squeezed his palm, trying to stanch the flow of blood, his face scrunched in agony.
“Who are you working for?” Quinn asked.
“Fuck you!”
“Your foot’s next, and I won’t just be going for your toes.”
The man rocked against the wall, blood soaking his shirt and jacket.
Out in the alley a voice called out, “Hey, what’s going on? Is someone hurt?”
“Don’t answer,” Quinn whispered.
“I heard a yell,” the voice said, getting nearer. “Is someone in there?”
Quinn leaned down near the watcher. “If you want help, tell me who you are and who sent you.”
Panting, the man glared at him, his eyes a mix of pain and anger. “Go to hell.”
Someone grabbed the outside handle of the metal door and started to pull it open. Quinn knew he wouldn’t get anything from the watcher, so he rose to his feet, and reached the door just as a bald guy with a protruding gut opened it wide enough to see inside.
Pushing past him, Quinn said, “Excuse me.”
“Hey, was that you?” the man asked. “Were you the one who yelled? Are you okay?”
Quinn silently walked on for another few feet.
Behind him, the man must have looked back into the garbage area, because it was only a few seconds before he said, “Oh, my God. What happened? Did that guy do this to you?”
Quinn picked up his pace.
CHAPTER 8
Q UINN REACHED M Street moments before the eastbound number-thirty-two bus pulled up to the stop. He hopped on board and paid the fare. The bus was about a third full, most of the passengers concentrated in the front few rows, while a huddle of teenagers claimed the back. Quinn grabbed a seat in a relatively empty section near the middle, pulled out his phone, and called Steve Howard.
“Hello?” Howard said.
“Steve, it’s Quinn. I know you’re still on your job, but do you have a moment?”
“Sure. Just sitting around, waiting. You know how it is. What’s up?”
“I have a location problem.”
“How can I help?”
Howard made his home in Virginia right outside DC, so if anyone had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would.
Once Quinn had filled him in on what had happened and what he was looking for, Howard said, “I’m sure I can come up with something. Let me check and call you back.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
After he hung up, Quinn checked in with Daeng.
“Everything’s okay?”
“We’ve repositioned,” Daeng said.
Quinn leaned forward. “Was there a problem?”
“Hold on.” Something moved over the phone, a hand probably. Quinn could hear Daeng’s muffled voice, indistinct as he talked to Misty. Some movement, and finally Daeng again, now in a whisper. “Misty was getting a little anxious being so close to Peter’s place. We were careful. Nobody saw us.”
“Where are you now?”
“Outside the Dupont Circle Metro station.”
“Don’t go in,” Quinn said. There would be security cameras everywhere. Whoever sent the watchers might’ve also had access to the video feeds.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Just melt into the background for a little bit. I’m arranging for someplace we can meet up. Once it’s set I’ll call you back.”
“Will do.”
The bus was on H Street, passing the White House, when Quinn’s phone rang
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