“Go,” Quinn ordered as he shut the door. “We’re done.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  SELDOM WAS THERE a bigger story in an election year than the election itself. The Thomas Gorman scandal was going to be one of those exceptions.

  His resurrection was littered with the bizarre. The facility he had been released from turned out to be an abandoned factory. PCN reporter Dewayne Beetner and his cameraman Zach Yates had searched the place themselves, finding absolutely no signs that it had been used at any point in the last decade. Wherever the prison was that Gorman said he had been held in, it wasn’t located in that building.

  Strange occurrence number two happened at almost the same instant, half a world away in New York City. If a PCN crew hadn’t been assigned to do generic on-the-street interviews near the PCN monitor in Times Square, it was possible this second event would have been covered up. But the crew couldn’t help notice the three men in orange jumpsuits with black hoods on their heads being pushed out of a van. They had rushed over, and had been in time to see the men pull their hoods off moments before two SUVs screeched to a halt nearby. From inside, several men in dark suits jumped out and grabbed the three in orange. They quickly ushered them into their vehicles and drove away. But the faces of the men in jumpsuits had already been recorded, and within minutes producers at PCN identified them as former senator Mygatt, a high-ranking CIA operative named William Green, and another member of the intelligence community named Scott Olsen.

  Even more interesting was that these were the same men implicated in a set of anonymously leaked documents, which included recorded phone conversations between the senator and Green that clearly showed they were responsible for Gorman’s faked death and incarceration.

  Not surprisingly, before the sun had even risen the next day, both the current and former administrations publicly denounced the men, anxious to separate themselves from Mygatt and his associates’ grossly illegal actions.

  QUINN AND THE others drove straight from New York to a safe house outside Philadelphia.

  The next day a package arrived from Peter. In it were the contents of yet another new life for Mila.

  When Quinn showed it to her, she looked less than enthusiastic.

  “There might still be those loyal to Mygatt or Green who would want to take out their revenge on you,” he explained.

  “I know,” she said. “I just hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

  “You did the right thing, Mila.”

  She held up the package. “And for that, this is my punishment.”

  “Not a punishment. An opportunity. A chance to do something you wanted to do, perhaps.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Julien would have been proud of you.”

  A smile touched her lips. “He would have, wouldn’t he?”

  A few hours later, a car came to take Mila to her new life. Where and what that was going to be, Quinn and the others didn’t know. It was better that way.

  They all gathered at the front door to see her off.

  “Thank you,” she said. “All of you, for coming after me. I would have failed on my own.”

  “You would have found a way,” Nate said.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “We do,” Orlando told her.

  Mila gave each of them a hug, saving the longest and last for Quinn.

  “I’m sorry you were shot.”

  “Part of the job.”

  “Hopefully you won’t have to find me again.”

  “If you need us to, we will.”

  THE DAY WAS sunny with only a few scattered clouds moving along the southern edge of the bright blue sky. The sound of the boat’s motor hummed as its propeller churned through the river.

  As soon as the familiar dock came into view, Quinn could feel the release of the tension he’d been holding on to. In an odd way, it felt like he was coming home.

  The scaffolding was still erected around the temple, and while he could see some work had been done, they were not nearly as far along as he’d thought they’d be.

  No matter. It would get done eventually.

  The engine died as the boat pulled against the dock.

  “So this is it?” Orlando said.

  “Sorry you came?” Quinn asked.

  She smiled. “Not at all.”

  “Please tell me they have Wi-Fi here,” Garrett said.

  Quinn patted Orlando’s son on the shoulder. “Sorry, buddy. No Wi-Fi.”

  “PlayStation?”

  “No.”

  “Wii? Xbox? They at least have cable, right?”

  Quinn shook his head.

  “Well…what am I going to do?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll find something.”

  As they climbed out of the boat, three monks appeared at the end of the dock, smiling broadly. Both Quinn and Orlando gave them a deep wai.

  “Welcome back, Khun Jonathan.”

  “Khob khun, krap,” Quinn said.

  He took Orlando’s hand, put his other on Garrett’s back, and walked across the dock to the temple grounds.

  “THANKS, QUINN,” THE client said. “We’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

  “Right. See you then.” Nate hung up.

  The job he’d just taken was a simple one. In fact, as was often the case, the client wasn’t even sure he would need the cleaner’s services, but was hiring Nate as insurance just in case. Once the gig was done, Nate thought he might take a week to go visit Liz in Paris.

  He looked across the room. “Puerto Rico. Ever been there?”

  Daeng, sitting on the couch in the living room of Quinn’s Hollywood Hills home, shook his head. Instead of heading straight back to Bangkok, he’d come to L.A. to visit some old friends from his high school days. Nate had offered him the guest room at the house.

  “Interested in going? They’ve budgeted me for an extra man.”

  A shrug. “Why not? Sounds like fun.”

  “Fun? Hopefully it’s boring, but I guess we’ll see.” He paused for a second. “There are a few rules we should probably go over first.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Acknowledgments

  As always, there are many who I will forget to mention, so apologies ahead of time for my lack of memory and unintentional slights. Yes, I make mistakes. All. The. Time.

  Huge thank-yous to editor extraordinaire Elyse Dinh-McCrillis and excellent friend/author/book-cover designer Robert Browne. Thanks to Danielle Perez for guiding me through the origins of Quinn, helping him (and me) mature as a character (and author). Suzette Pirozzi for the Italian translations. Any mistakes would be mine.

  To my friends old and new who keep me sane—and slightly insane—thank you. And Ronan, Fiona, and Keira—you, as always, are the reasons I smile every day.

  Thank you for reading The Destroyed

  Reviews at your place of purchase are always appreciated!

  For updates on new work, sign up for Brett Battles’ newsletter here.

  And keep going to read THE COLLECTED.

  The Collected

  A Jonathan Quinn Novel

  This one’s for Cami and Tori and all the living you still have in front of you!

  Chapter One

  THE TWO LISTS lay on the table, side by side, black ink on white paper.

  The first set of names would be the easiest. Once a man was dead, he was dead.

  It was the plans David Harris’s boss had for the second set that would be more difficult.

  “I want to see their faces,” Javier Romero had ordered. “I want them to know what’s happening to them. I want them to know why.”

  “It’s risky,” Harris argued at the time. “These aren’t just normal people. They’re professionals. One small error could have serious consequences.”

  “Then I suggest you make sure there are no errors.”

  In truth, the idea of bringing the men on the second list to Romero’s hideaway excited Harris. It was a challenge, like the way things had been before the incident—as Romero referred to it—four years earlier. Back then, ridding his boss of his enemies had been an enjoyable weekly task. It was something Harris, as trusted advisor and head of security, had done very well, satisfying the occasional call of his mercenary roots.

  But since the incident, there had been very little of that, only the promise of one last big project. As the kicker, Romero had promised him a healthy reward once the project was complete. Given the man’s wealth and the dollars discussed, it had been more than enough reason for Harris to stick around.

  And now the time had finally come, the job that would allow him to get his hands dirty again, if only figuratively.

  In another month, two at the most, he’d be gone from here, living his own life however the hell he wanted to, and never having to work for anyone again.

  He picked up the second list. Seven names, two crossed out. They were already dead, not by Harris’s hand or anyone associated with him or Romero, but by the nature of the work they did.

  Unfortunate, but it still left the five.

  He smiled.

  This was going to be fun.

  Four Weeks Later

  Chapter Two

  NORTHEASTERN MEXICO

  NATE’S PHONE RANG. “Yes?”

  “It’s going down now.” The voice belonged to Kelvin Moore, the ops leader. The pause that followed lasted fifteen seconds. “All right, we’re done. You’re up, Mr. Quinn. We’re clearing out now.”

  Nate started the van. “Any complications?”

  “None.” Moore hung up.

  Nate shoved his phone into his pocket and dropped the van into gear. Since he’d taken over running his boss’s business—temporarily or not was still to be determined—Nate had used Jonathan Quinn’s name just to make things easier. Most clients only knew Quinn from his reputation, and had not met him in person, but it was that reputation that kept them calling, so it only made sense to continue utilizing it. Occasionally, Nate would run into a field op who knew Quinn, but so far, though there were a few raised eyebrows, there had yet to be any issues.

  “Finally,” Burke said, a sly smile pushing his cheek up on one side. He was the assistant Nat had been forced to hire for the job. Daeng, his de facto number two, had been called back to Asia on an emergency, and all the usual freelancers he would have hired to fill in were unavailable. Burke had been the suggestion of the job’s broker, and guy named Pullman.

  The termination site was a warehouse tucked into the foothills outside of Monterrey, Mexico. The drive from the staging point took four minutes. Per Nate’s request, the ops team had left the gate open in the fence surrounding the building when they departed.

  “Stick to the plan,” Nate said, slowing the van as he drove onto the property. “No conversation. You need me, you get my attention some other way.”

  Burke waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

  Nate pulled to a stop near the loading dock, and killed the engine. Out of habit, he tugged on his gloves to make sure they were snug on his hands, then nodded at Burke.

  Staying inside the vehicle, they moved into the back. As they’d discussed ahead of time, Burke picked up the roll of black plastic sheeting while Nate donned the clean kit—a backpack with all the tools needed to do a proper job.

  Nate grabbed the handle on the back door, but paused as he glanced at his temporary employee. “Ready?”

  “Of course. Come on.”

  “Five minutes. No more.”

  “I know. I know. Let’s get this started.”

  If Nate hadn’t already decided this was going to be the only time Burke worked for him, the man’s eagerness would have sealed the deal. Nate was a cleaner, and his was a cool, calm business, not something that should be considered exciting. That’s when things were missed and mistakes were made.

  Per the mission briefing, the building was supposedly secured only by an alarm system that the ops team had disarmed when they first arrived, but as his mentor Quinn always said, “What is supposed to be isn’t always what is.” A second, undetected alarm was not out of the question, or even security guards who might have hidden while the ops team did their thing.

  Alert, Nate approached the door at the end of the loading dock. This, too, the ops team had left unlocked for them. Pushing it open a few inches, Nate moved his ear next to the gap and listened. Dead silence. With a nod to Burke, they slipped inside.

  The main warehouse area was a larger room filled with rows of neatly stacked boxes and crates. The overhead fluorescents were off, but a dozen scattered safety lights were still lit, giving the two of them more than enough illumination to find their way around.

  The area they were interested in was a quarter of the way down the third aisle. Nate signaled for Burke to wait at the end, then headed quickly between the boxes alone, so he could make sure everything was as expected.

  The body lay on three thick layers of cardboard in a nook created within the row of boxes. Nate had been the one who prepared the flooring the previous evening, putting plastic sheeting between the cardboard layers and the floor to prevent blood from leaking onto the concrete. He’d also installed the boxes at the back of the nook, none of which contained the liquid soap or paper plates the rest of the containers held. Instead, each had been filled with a lightweight material that was deceptively strong, and very adept at stopping projectiles. He did a quick scan and spotted the bullet hole in a box just off center, second from the bottom, and was confident the bullet would be inside.

  As for the dead man, Nate had no prior knowledge of his identity, nor did he recognize him now. That was often the nature of the job. For whatever reason, someone had decided the man needed to be eliminated. Nate’s only concern was getting the body out, and leaving behind no trace that anything happened.

  He signaled Burke to join him.

  The first thing they did was to roll up the body in the cardboard flooring, then package it all in a double layer of black plastic. It would be heavy to carry, but doable. They then set about pulling down Nate’s wall of boxes, and dumping the material from inside onto another piece of sheeting. When Nate reached the box with the hole in it, he found the bullet resting comfortably in the fourth fold of the material.

  The damaged box was added to the pile, but the others they closed and left. In a day or two or maybe a week, someone might wonder why several boxes were empty, but that would be the only clue that something had gone on here.

  They carried the discarded materials out to the van, then returned and did the same with the body.

  “Piece of cake,” Burke said as they were driving away.

  Nate gave him a noncommittal grunt. It had gone smoothly, and he had to admit Burke had done exactly as they had discussed ahead of time. They had even finished the removal with nearly half a minute to spare. That said, Burke still rubbed him the wrong way, and the guy’s chances at being rehired remained zero.

  The next step was to make the body and the other items from the warehouse permanently disappear. After that, it would be straight to the airport and a flight back to L.A. that would get Nate home in the afternoon. He’d sleep in his own bed tonight, and then tomorrow Liz would arrive.

  He started to smile, but stopped himself. He couldn’t think about Liz, not right now. She would only distract him.

  Finish the job first, buddy. You can think about her once you get home.

  The plan for the body was simple. There was a lot of empty space in this part of Mexico. Nate had chosen a quiet ravine about fifteen miles away from the warehouse. The previous afternoon, he and Burke had dug the grave. Once they dropped the body into it, Nate would cover it with a healthy amount of a chemical powder blend Quinn had developed, and he and Burke would fill the hole with dirt. The chemicals would eat away at the body. Within a day, most visible identifying marks would be gone. Within a week, pretty much any method used to try to figure out who the dead man had been would fail.

  The sun was still a good half hour from rising, but the sky in the east was beginning to pale. It was going to be close, but Nate was hopeful they would be done by the time daylight peeked over the horizon.

  He checked the odometer. Their turnoff was a mile and a half away. From there, it would be a two-mile ride along a dry, flash-flood wash through a narrow valley.

  Nate reached for a bottle of water next to his seat, but paused before he could grab it, his eyes focusing on a point in the distance.

  What the hell?

  At right about the point where they were supposed to leave the road, there were headlights of at least three cars parked on the side of the highway.

  He slowed the van, wanting to give himself enough time to assess the situation before deciding whether it was something to worry about. The situation was not made easy by the brightening sky. It was screwing up his vision, making the ground and anything on it seem even darker than when the night had been in full control.

  He checked the odometer again, and looked back at the headlights. No, they weren’t close to where he wanted to turn off. They were parked at the exact spot.

  Coincidences didn’t exist. Not in a cleaner’s world, anyway. Believing in them was a quick path to a short career. He had to assume the vehicles were trouble, which meant scratching his primary dump site.

  He pulled the van to the side of the road, and killed the lights.

  “What are you doing?” Burke asked.