Extreme Faction by Trevor Scott Page B

sense.” Quinn looked at the gun in Jake’s hand. “Is that the Makarov Tully gave you?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œIt’s a piece of shit,” Quinn said. “I’ll try to get you something better.” He felt for his own gun, and not finding it, he said, “I guess we both need a new one. Those bastards took my brand new Glock 19.”
    â€œI’d prefer a CZ-75, but a Glock will do, if you can swing it.”
    â€œI’ll ask for it in our next pouch due in from Rome.” Quinn rose and brought what was left of the ice pack to the kitchen and threw it in the sink. When he returned, he said, “Let’s head out and get a beer. I’ve got a few ideas left on where to find Petra.”
    Jake holstered the Makarov. “Sounds good.”

7
    It was Jake’s idea to go to the Odessa Hotel for a beer. Quinn didn’t care, he just wanted a beer to take his mind off the bruise that had formed on the side of his head. He had to be in some pain.
    The Odessa Hotel was a few blocks down Primorski Boulevard from his hotel and perhaps a kilometer down that same street from the Maranavka, where Tvchenko had been killed the night before. The Odessa was nearly the same age as the Maranavka with less than half the charm or opulence. The red carpet in the lobby was worn and frayed and the oak counter in need of varnish.
    Moving into the bar area, it seemed like night had already settled on the town, since half of the overhead lights were either turned off or missing.
    They nudged up against the hotel bar, and considering the time of day, late afternoon, the place was fairly crowded. Picking up a couple of local Pilsners at the bar, the two of them found seats at a table back in a corner.
    â€œHow’s your head?” Jake asked.
    â€œThey didn’t teach that move at the academy.”
    Jake shrugged. “I knew that before I joined the old Agency.”
    Quinn rubbed the bruise gently. “Nice.”
    They stared at each other for a moment. Quinn scratched his finely cropped goatee that made his chin look like a sharp chisel. The pointed angles stretched his head out, making it appear longer than it was.
    Finally, Jake asked, “What do you know about the Kurds?”
    â€œYou separate it from the whey to make cheese.”
    â€œFunny guy.”
    â€œHey, I used to work on a dairy farm in the summers in high school.”
    Jake took a sip of beer and kept an eye on the door. He had had more than one reason choosing this place. He hoped to run into Chavva between conferences. But neither she nor any of her Israeli friends were there.
    â€œThe Kurds?” Jake repeated.
    â€œI know nothing about Kurds.”
    â€œWhat about Petra?”
    Quinn took a long sip of beer. “I don’t know where she is. I’ll hit as many places as I can tonight to see if I can find her. I’ll bring her in and ask her about Tvchenko.”
    Great. Jake leaned back and thought for a moment about his questioning. What did it matter to him? He was damn near interrogating the man, someone who should have been asking him questions about his association with the dead scientist.
    â€œWhy did Tully ask me to go pick up Petra?”
    â€œHow the hell should I know.” Quinn’s voice raised above the normal din of voices, bringing stares from a few men at the nearest table.
    â€œDon’t get pissed at me,” Jake said. “I was just doing the guy a favor. He thought you were—”
    â€œWhat? Incompetent?”
    â€œSleeping...after staying up most of the night looking for Petra. Listen, I don’t work for the agency anymore. I was just trying to help out.”
    Quinn rose to his feet and finished his beer. “Maybe you should go back to babysitting.”
    Leaving Jake there by himself, Quinn stormed out of the bar. That went well, Jake thought.
    He finished his beer and then wandered toward the lobby. At the front desk, he asked for