what’s up,” Quinn said.
They walked to Main Street, waited for traffic to clear, then crossed to the other side.
“They can’t want us coming in through the front,” Nate said. “Gotta be a rear entrance.”
“Check it out,” Quinn said.
While Quinn examined the menu posted in the window of the café, Nate walked around to the back of the building.
When he returned, he nodded. “Three doors. Two for the café and one for the empty shop.”
Quinn looked at his watch. They were ten minutes early.
“Let’s get a coffee first,” he said.
“And a sandwich?”
Quinn frowned. “Fine. But to go.”
“It would probably draw less attention if you order something, too.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” But the untimely growl from his stomach belied his tone.
• • •
The man who greeted them at the back door of Alison’s Boutique was small only in height. Quinn guessed he wasn’t more than five foot five. He wasn’t fat, though. Muscles bulged, large and menacing and almost, but not quite, obscene. Steroids for sure, and about a million hours in the gym. If his muscle mass had been toned down even ten percent, he would have been more intimidating. Small guys could be wiry and unpredictable. But with this guy’s bulk, speed and agility were no longer options.
“You’re late,” he said as he moved out of the way to let them in.
Quinn and Nate crossed inside.
“You Donovan?” Quinn asked, once he and Nate were inside.
The man shook his head. “He’ll be back in a bit.” He nodded toward a rectangular table in the center of the room surrounded by folding chairs. There was no one else present. “You can make yourself comfortable there.”
“So who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Edgar.”
Quinn cocked his head. “We’ve worked together before, haven’t we?” He stared at the man for a moment. “Not Edgar. It’s …” He thought for a moment. “It’s Mercer, isn’t it?”
“Not bad,” Mercer said. “And you’re Quinn.”
Mercer had been a background player on a job three years earlier. A gig for the Office.
“You were a courier, weren’t you?” Quinn asked.
“Was. But haven’t been for a long time.”
Without another word, Mercer turned and walked out of the room, leaving Quinn and Nate alone.
Nate, who was already sitting down, sandwich in hand, said, “Friend of yours?”
“Barely know him,” Quinn said as he took a seat across the table from his apprentice.
“Friendly type.”
Quinn shrugged. You met all kinds in this business.
At five minutes after two, the back door to the shop opened again, and four men walked in. They were all somewhere between thirty and forty years old and were casually dressed: jeans, button-down shirts, light jackets.
“Quinn?” the one with thinning hair asked.
Quinn stood up and held out his hand. “Are you Donovan?”
“Yep,” Donovan said. “Shall we get down to it?”
A moment later everyone was seated around the table looking at a map. It showed property lines and accurate footprints of each structure in the area. There were also circles of various sizes indicating the locations of trees and other vegetation. At the street end of each property was the corresponding address. Donovan pointed to a block of Main Street not in the town center area, but further out in the direction of Mosher Corner.
“Here’s the target house,” Donovan said.
He circled an upside-down, reversed L in the center of a parcel on the north side of the street. The home was set back a couple of hundred feet from the road.
“We’re doing it in the target’s home?” Quinn asked.
Donovan nodded. “Not ideal, I know. But he lives alone, and seldom goes out. The report I have says the only visitors he gets are the mailman and a weekly delivery of groceries.”
“Bedridden?” Nate asked.
“No. Just private,” Donovan replied. “We arrived yesterday morning. Since then I’ve had one of my men keeping an eye on the place using
They walked to Main Street, waited for traffic to clear, then crossed to the other side.
“They can’t want us coming in through the front,” Nate said. “Gotta be a rear entrance.”
“Check it out,” Quinn said.
While Quinn examined the menu posted in the window of the café, Nate walked around to the back of the building.
When he returned, he nodded. “Three doors. Two for the café and one for the empty shop.”
Quinn looked at his watch. They were ten minutes early.
“Let’s get a coffee first,” he said.
“And a sandwich?”
Quinn frowned. “Fine. But to go.”
“It would probably draw less attention if you order something, too.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” But the untimely growl from his stomach belied his tone.
• • •
The man who greeted them at the back door of Alison’s Boutique was small only in height. Quinn guessed he wasn’t more than five foot five. He wasn’t fat, though. Muscles bulged, large and menacing and almost, but not quite, obscene. Steroids for sure, and about a million hours in the gym. If his muscle mass had been toned down even ten percent, he would have been more intimidating. Small guys could be wiry and unpredictable. But with this guy’s bulk, speed and agility were no longer options.
“You’re late,” he said as he moved out of the way to let them in.
Quinn and Nate crossed inside.
“You Donovan?” Quinn asked, once he and Nate were inside.
The man shook his head. “He’ll be back in a bit.” He nodded toward a rectangular table in the center of the room surrounded by folding chairs. There was no one else present. “You can make yourself comfortable there.”
“So who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Edgar.”
Quinn cocked his head. “We’ve worked together before, haven’t we?” He stared at the man for a moment. “Not Edgar. It’s …” He thought for a moment. “It’s Mercer, isn’t it?”
“Not bad,” Mercer said. “And you’re Quinn.”
Mercer had been a background player on a job three years earlier. A gig for the Office.
“You were a courier, weren’t you?” Quinn asked.
“Was. But haven’t been for a long time.”
Without another word, Mercer turned and walked out of the room, leaving Quinn and Nate alone.
Nate, who was already sitting down, sandwich in hand, said, “Friend of yours?”
“Barely know him,” Quinn said as he took a seat across the table from his apprentice.
“Friendly type.”
Quinn shrugged. You met all kinds in this business.
At five minutes after two, the back door to the shop opened again, and four men walked in. They were all somewhere between thirty and forty years old and were casually dressed: jeans, button-down shirts, light jackets.
“Quinn?” the one with thinning hair asked.
Quinn stood up and held out his hand. “Are you Donovan?”
“Yep,” Donovan said. “Shall we get down to it?”
A moment later everyone was seated around the table looking at a map. It showed property lines and accurate footprints of each structure in the area. There were also circles of various sizes indicating the locations of trees and other vegetation. At the street end of each property was the corresponding address. Donovan pointed to a block of Main Street not in the town center area, but further out in the direction of Mosher Corner.
“Here’s the target house,” Donovan said.
He circled an upside-down, reversed L in the center of a parcel on the north side of the street. The home was set back a couple of hundred feet from the road.
“We’re doing it in the target’s home?” Quinn asked.
Donovan nodded. “Not ideal, I know. But he lives alone, and seldom goes out. The report I have says the only visitors he gets are the mailman and a weekly delivery of groceries.”
“Bedridden?” Nate asked.
“No. Just private,” Donovan replied. “We arrived yesterday morning. Since then I’ve had one of my men keeping an eye on the place using
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