Mindjacker Page 11

  Quinn stared at Jones, still hardly believing the shift in his tone and diction. It was like another man was speaking.

  “No, sir,” Jones said after a pause. “We’ve been having problems with someone involved in the job we did for you, and we just have some questions. It will only take a few minutes.” Jones nodded, listening. “Of course, sir. I’ll hold.”

  Jones jerked his head toward the restaurant. Linden was heading back to his office to take the call. It was time.

  They stowed their bags behind the dumpster and headed toward Viola’s back door.

  “Yes, Mr. Linden,” Jones went on. “I’m here.” Quinn got to work on picking the lock. “You’re in no danger, but we’ve gotten report that the target from your previous job has been targeting other men of your… means. Have you heard anything about this in your—” Jones stopped. “Yeah, I’ll hold.”

  Quinn eyed Jones, wondering what was going on. Jones shrugged, looking perplexed.

  “I’m on hold,” he said quietly.

  “Hang up.”

  Quinn gained access to the door, and they made their way inside, where she heard the clanging of pans and the sizzling of grilled meat. The kitchen. She led them toward the back of the restaurant, the kitchen noise quieter now as they passed an employee break room. And there, at the end of the hallway, was a closed door.

  Linden’s office.

  They tiptoed toward the door. Soon, Quinn realized why Linden put Jones on hold. She could hear voices behind the door. Someone was in Linden’s office with him.

  She cursed under her breath. It was now or never. They would have to sedate whoever else was in there and then do a memory wipe. More time, more complications, more risk. Thoughts of Noah and his father encroached, but she pushed them away.

  She eyed Jones, whose expression showed that he too had assessed the situation. He raised an eyebrow, putting up two fingers, then motioning toward the door. She gave the nod.

  Just as Jones went for the doorknob, the sedative already loaded in his hand, Quinn heard something. A familiar word, one that made her grab Jones’s arm.

  He looked at her like she was crazy. “What the fuck?” he mouthed.

  She held a finger to her lips. There it was again, that word.

  Protectorate.

  And then another familiar word.

  Borelli.

  Quinn stood there, frozen, trying to listen in.

  “I’ve got them on hold right now. They’ve got questions—”

  “Be careful, Linden,” came the other voice, nasal and too loud. “Them fuckers will mess with you and they shouldn’t be calling on no Saturday night! Don’t give away that we’re working together.”

  “What do you take me for, you fool?” Linden hissed. “And quiet down. You shouldn’t even be here!”

  Quinn shook her head, not knowing what the hell was happening. Before she could make a snap decision, Jones nudged her. When she glanced up at him, he mouthed another word.

  Borelli.

  The other man in the office was Borelli. But how could Jones know? Then she realized. Jones had gone to Borelli’s restaurant when he’d learned who the client was. He’d interacted with him, had heard his distinct loud voice already.

  Suddenly, Quinn had a bad feeling, like something was about to go down. She motioned across her throat with her finger.

  Jones nodded. But just as they turned to leave, Linden’s door opened and a stocky, dark-haired man with a sweaty forehead came barreling out of the office, shutting the door loudly behind him. Quinn’s blood went cold and adrenaline shot through her as she reached for her weapon.

  Jones bent down suddenly, kneeling so he could tie his shoe. Or pretend to. He was hiding his face from Borelli. Thank God Jones’s tattoos were well-hidden under his chef’s whites.

  Borelli glanced at Quinn as he passed by. She smiled, knowing that something as simple as a smile could go a long way in hiding a multitude of sins and suspicious activity. Borelli didn’t respond and kept walking. Just as Quinn began to follow him, hoping she and Jones could escape before Linden emerged and recognized her face, Borelli stopped. Then he turned and faced them.

  “What are you two doin’ here, huh?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed.

  He knows. He knows something’s wrong.

  “We just needed to talk to the boss,” she said. “We’re getting low on sea bass tonight.”

  Borelli seemed to buy that and he turned and headed out the back door. Quinn prodded Jones and they followed, Jones on her heels as they slipped out the back door before it closed.

  Borelli would see them in the alley, but it was better than Linden seeing them, and they could always pretend they were stealing a kiss or taking a smoke break. Jones shoved the door closed behind them while Quinn eyed Borelli, who marched away and disappeared around the corner.

  Quinn and Jones headed the other way, to the dumpster. They quickly changed into regular clothing and left.

  Linden and Borelli were in cahoots. Quinn had no idea why, but she did know one thing for sure: both men had violated the Protectorate’s ironclad rules. Which meant the job was aborted.

  They would have to start all over.

  Chapter 20

  “What the hell happened back there?” Jones growled.

  He stood near Quinn’s window, a scowl on his face as he let the oscillating fan blow on him.

  “I have no idea!” Quinn cried. “And why do you say it like that, like it’s my fault?”

  “You’re the one who put this job together. And decided to target him in his office.”

  Quinn gave Jones a dirty look. “Don’t even think about blaming me. I do my research before I set up a job. And you planned this thing with me, remember? Maybe your little recon trip to Borelli’s tipped him off.”

  She knew that wasn’t the case, but if he was going to point fingers, then so was she. But she quickly saw that they’d already run out of ammunition to aim at one another, and Jones finally sank to her floor while Quinn sat on her foam bed, her elbows on her knees.

  “Were we set up?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. Borelli seemed to believe we were employees, even if he was a little suspicious. And if it was a sting operation, the jacker police would have been there.”

  “Is it the Protectorate? Are they testing us or not tellin’ us something?”

  Quinn thought about that. After all, this was a shit job assigned to two people who’d lost data, who needed to prove themselves. “Jesus, I hope not. But I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Jones heaved a sigh. “We’re fucking cursed, is what it is.”

  For some reason, that made Quinn laugh. They were cursed. Both had faced significant setbacks, and they’d certainly faced their share of annoyances on this job.

  “Glad you find that funny,” Jones muttered.

  Quinn stood up and went to her mini-fridge, taking out her chilled water and pouring two glasses. She handed one to Jones. He looked surprised, but took the glass and drank half of it right away.

  She sat down on the bed again. “Believe me, I’m pissed off too. It’s more wasted time and effort on a job that won’t get us what we want. But… there’s one piece of good news. Those two losers broke the rules, which means we can ditch this stupid job and get a better one. Start over.”

  Jones gave a halfhearted nod. “I suppose. That Borelli’s a dick and I hate a dick client.”

  “Me too. And hey, the job fell apart, but we handled it. Linden really believed that the Protectorate was calling, and you knew to hide your face from Borelli without looking like you were. Of course, you wouldn’t have had to hide your face if you hadn’t done recon at Borelli’s joint, but then again, the recon meant recognizing Borelli’s voice, which was our key warning to abort. I call that success.”

  Jones eyed her for a moment, as if looking for signs of mockery. “Good call on stopping me at the door. I woulda just busted right in there, and that woulda been a big fucken mess to clean u
p.”

  “Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll call Yolanda tomorrow and line up another job.”

  Jones nodded, and left.

  Yolanda listened as Quinn relayed the events of the previous night to her. Quinn didn’t let on that she and her temporary partner had wondered if they were being tested or if the Protectorate was holding back important information.

  “What do you think?” Quinn said.

  “Our client has clearly violated rules he agreed to,” Yolanda began. “But as far as why, I don’t know. I don’t see what these two men have to gain by combining forces. If they’re secretly looking to form some restaurant conglomerate, they could have done that without our help, unless Mr. Borelli has some other plan up his sleeve…”

  “Agreed. Either way, that means you guys have to deal with them now.” And Jones and I get another assignment.

  Yolanda hesitated. “Not necessarily. Something about this isn’t sitting right with me. We need more information, which means you both need to see the job through.”

  Quinn felt a flash of annoyance. “How are we supposed to do that? Borelli’s already seen me and Linden’s probably suspicious from that fake Protectorate call. It’s dangerous. And jacking Linden won’t get the full story anyway—”

  “Exactly. Which is why you must mindjack Mr. Borelli, too. Only then can we decipher what these men are up to and extract the information necessary to deal with them accordingly.”

  “You want us to mindjack Borelli?” Quinn cried. “He’ll tell Linden and then report us! Which means we’d have to do a memory wipe. That’s Tier-One-level work, not to mention that I’ve only done it once in the field!”

  “That’s the job, Quinn.”

  “Come on, Yolanda! This is ridiculously unfair! It’s double the work and double the risk for what was already shitty pay, assuming you’re paying us from Borelli’s retainer! And since when does the Protectorate send out jackers to do investigations that special ops should be doing?”

  “Do you not want that second chance?” Yolanda said menacingly. “The one I gave you even though another ops manager would have cut you loose?”

  Quinn gritted her teeth to avoid snapping. “Of course I want it.”

  “Then do this. You failed on the Clive McCloskey job. It cost us money, it cost us a good client, and we lost years of investment in Daria’s training. Jones cost us too, which I’m sure you already know. If you both want to earn back the Protectorate’s trust, this is your chance. And it’s your only chance. Don’t screw it up again.”

  Yolanda hung up.

  Quinn shook her head, tossing her phone onto her bed. She wanted so badly to call Yolanda back and tell her to go to hell. She wanted to tell her that she knew the Protectorate was taking advantage of their vulnerability, using them to handle a job that shouldn’t be their responsibility, knowing they would do it for dirt cheap and were too desperate to say no. And if they failed… well, that wasn’t the Protectorate’s problem, was it?

  The Protectorate had them over a barrel—too far along in their training to back out, too old to pursue education or other avenues that would pay off in twenty or thirty years, too broke to pursue other options. Yolanda knew, alright, and she was leveraging them for the most powerful of reasons.

  Because she could.

  Quinn saw it all. The heartless, greedy side of the Protectorate, who’d siphoned money from her for years, all in the name of “training,” all in the name of “you’re lucky to be here,” never giving a rat’s ass about the huge risk the trainees took every time they agreed to a dangerous and crappy-paying job, every time they did the dirty grunt work so the Protectorate could profit and become even more powerful. Hell, only cops had this dangerous a job, and they got decent pay and benefits, enough to live in Midtown.

  She’d worked this hard and this long to get out of Downtown and away from all its perils, only to wind up exchanging one form of powerlessness for another. She could hear her father’s words: life will screw you one way or another. It seemed that was one thing he hadn’t lied about.

  But Quinn knew the truth. She was powerless. She needed the Protectorate more than it needed her. And so did Jones.

  They would do the job, and that was that.

  Chapter 21

  When Quinn arrived at Mercy Park, she didn’t see Jones’s solid build or bright tattoos yet.

  It was dark out. And late. The old park in the White Sands neighborhood, once filled with cacti like other Downtown parks, was now nothing but concrete and rocks, and oddly-shaped metal sculptures where the cacti used to be. The tall sculptures were created out of random metal scrap by school kids, and at night they looked almost menacing, as if to scare off monsters.

  Quinn finally spotted Jones, in his usual cargoes and tank top, sitting on one of the swings. The ones for kids. It made Jones look more vulnerable somehow, like she could almost imagine him as a boy. Quinn took a seat on the swing next to him.

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a guy who likes the swings,” she joked.

  No smile or reaction. “My brother likes ’em.”

  “Oh, you have a brother who’s a kid?”

  Jones hesitated. “In some ways. He’s fully grown… but not so much mentally.”

  Quinn nodded, surprised. It was the first time he’d ever talked about his personal life.

  He finally turned to her. “What’s the word?”

  Quinn told him what Yolanda said.

  Jones shook his head, his jaw tightening. “God damn it. They know they got us bent over with our pants down, that’s what this is.”

  “You’re right.”

  “This is exactly what I been tryin’ to avoid,” he said, his hands gripping the chains of his swing. “Havin’ someone hold money over my head, makin’ me jump up and down for it like a fucken dog.”

  “I know. It took every bit of self-control I had not to tell her to go fuck herself.” She sighed. “We’re in the same boat, you and me, and at least we agree—”

  “We ain’t in the same boat,” he snapped, his eyes on her again. “My brother… he needs supervision and special medical care. My mother takes care of him and they rely on my support. The type of shit the Protectorate’s got us doin’… it’s risky. If something happens to me, if I wind up in the clink or worse, my family’s done for. That’s what drives me. That’s why I do this, for my family.” He paused, giving her a onceover. “Ain’t nothin’ drivin’ you except wantin’ the good life.”

  Quinn blinked at the rebuke, her anger flaring for a moment and a slew of insults lining up in her mind. But she held her tongue. She wanted much more than “the good life,” but it wasn’t the time to even attempt to explain all that. And even with her reasons, she didn’t have a family to worry about like Jones did.

  “It’s noble,” she finally said. “How much you care for your family.”

  Jones looked away, his jaw still pulsing with tension. For the first time, Quinn felt compassion for the big thug.

  He swayed in the swing for a bit, until he spoke again. “Every time I leave to do a job, Jeffrey knows. He senses it, like he fucken knows I’m doing something dangerous, something that could take me away from him. Then he acts up, and we gotta spend time reassuring him… but he knows. And he’s been actin’ up more lately, like he knows this job is fucked.”

  Suddenly, the memory of Jones being late for their first meeting resurfaced. “Is that why you were late that time? Because Jeffrey was upset?”

  He nodded.

  Quinn took a sip from her water bottle. “Look. There’s nothing I can say to make this better. But I do know this: we will figure it out. We’ll do what we have to, we’ll be super prepared, and we’ll get it done. We have the skills.”

  “I don’t trust these motherfuckers.”

  “Which ones? The clients or the Protectorate?”

  “Either. Problems and shit pay are bad enough, but I can’t afford to get pinched, or shot up.”

  “Sounds like you need
a bit of insurance. Maybe something like this?” She pulled her energy weapon from her right pocket, giving him just a peek.

  Jones’s eyes widened. “Where’d you get that?”

  She smiled. “Never mind that. My point is, nobody will hurt us, Jones. Nobody will arrest us. We’ll get this done, for us, and for your family.”

  Quinn meant the words. And she hoped Jones believed her. She’d reassured Daria enough times to know that sometimes they just needed to hear that she believed in their cause, that she would do anything to succeed. And when it came down to it, she would. She’d lost two bets to Noah and lost countless arguments and wrestling matches to Wyatt back in the day, but Quinn always won when it came to getting what meant the most to her.

  Jones’s phone rang.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, buddy.” Pause. “Don’t you worry. I’m just talking with a friend. I’ll be home soon.” He hung up, sitting there for a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t know about any of this anymore.”

  Quinn watched as Jones stood and walked away, his gait heavy and determined, but somehow hunched just a bit, as if beaten down by all he’d faced. Her mind went to Daria, who she still hadn’t heard from. And once again, she wondered if her dad had been right, if hard work and determination weren’t enough against forces more powerful than they were.

  The next day, Quinn woke up to two messages. She hoped one would be from Jones, letting her know he was in. Because at that point, she’d begun to worry that he would crap out on her, like Daria had. She hoped the other would be from Daria, whom she hadn’t heard from in weeks. But when she checked the first one, it was from Noah.

  “Hey, beautiful. I had a great time the other night. Sorry about having to bail like that, but I fully intend to make it up to you.”

  Quinn listened to the message, torn between happiness at hearing from him and the weighty burden of knowing what happened to his father, that he hated people like her. How would he feel if he knew the truth?