just below the window to the entrance hall. Since the interior wooden shutters were closed, the intruder couldn't see in.
Quinn was about to step around the corner of the house when his unwanted visitor pulled what looked like a small black box out of a cloth bag at his side. Quinn stopped to watch. The intruder pressed the device gently against the window, where it stuck easily. He then pulled a set of earphones out of his pocket, plugging it into the box. He put one of the earpieces into his left ear.
This guy's not some random burglar, Quinn thought. He's a pro.
Quinn had seen the black box before. In fact, he owned one himself. It was an echo box, a listening device that amplified sounds from inside a building when placed against a window. It was held in position against the glass by a quick-release suction device. For the moment, the intruder would be able to hear almost anything that was said inside.
Keeping low, Quinn moved away from the house, over to where his BMW was parked in the driveway. The move didn't get him any closer to the intruder, but it did put Quinn behind the son of a bitch. He checked the Walther to make sure the sound suppressor was firmly attached, then moved toward the house.
The intruder had removed the listening device from his ear and was now pulling something else out of his bag. Quinn moved silently forward, not stopping until he was only six feet away from his uninvited guest.
'Put it down,' Quinn said in a calm, even voice.
The man froze, then lowered his hands. In one was a thin, ropelike substance. Quinn recognized it immediately. Incendiary cord. He wasn't quite sure what the guy had in mind, but there was no mistaking the ultimate objective.
'Drop it,' Quinn said.
The intruder did as he was told.
'Now turn around and stand up. Slowly,' Quinn cautioned. 'Hands in the air.'
The intruder followed Quinn's instructions. The man was about five foot ten and wiry. He couldn't have been more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He was dressed all in black. Even his face, which was smeared with something like grease or shoe polish, was black.
'Five steps,' Quinn said. 'Two away from the window and three toward the front door.'
He watched as the intruder stepped away from his bag and toward the entrance. So far the guy was following orders. Quinn took a step forward, keeping a wary eye on the man. 'Turn around and face the wall,' Quinn said.
When the intruder's back was to him, Quinn shoved the man between the shoulder blades, forcing him hard against the building. Because of the angle, most of the guy's weight was now on his hands, making it nearly impossible for him to make any kind of move on Quinn.
Quinn did a quick body search. The man was carrying a Glock in a shoulder holster, and a seven-inch Ka-Bar fighting knife in a leather sheath on his belt. Quinn took the weapons, then reached over and knocked once on the front door.
Nate opened it instantly. 'I was wondering when the hell you were going to –' He stopped, staring.
'Hands behind you,' Quinn said to the intruder. 'We're going inside.'
** *
'Kitchen,' Quinn told Nate once the front door was closed again.
Nate led the way. As they passed the living room, Quinn dropped the Glock and the knife on the couch.
The kitchen was a work of art – exposed wood, stainless steel, and a floor covered by light brown tiles imported from Spain. It was almost like one of those kitchens you'd see in a magazine: spacious, functional, with a large island in the center. Off to one side was a breakfast nook, complete with a nineteenth-century wooden table and an eclectic mix of chairs. Nate pulled one of the chairs out from the table, and Quinn pushed the intruder onto it.
'Turn on the light,' Quinn said to Nate.
Nate walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. The light gave Quinn his first chance to get a good look at his prisoner. Even with the black face paint, he wasn't surprised he recognized the man.
'Hello, Gibson,' Quinn
Quinn was about to step around the corner of the house when his unwanted visitor pulled what looked like a small black box out of a cloth bag at his side. Quinn stopped to watch. The intruder pressed the device gently against the window, where it stuck easily. He then pulled a set of earphones out of his pocket, plugging it into the box. He put one of the earpieces into his left ear.
This guy's not some random burglar, Quinn thought. He's a pro.
Quinn had seen the black box before. In fact, he owned one himself. It was an echo box, a listening device that amplified sounds from inside a building when placed against a window. It was held in position against the glass by a quick-release suction device. For the moment, the intruder would be able to hear almost anything that was said inside.
Keeping low, Quinn moved away from the house, over to where his BMW was parked in the driveway. The move didn't get him any closer to the intruder, but it did put Quinn behind the son of a bitch. He checked the Walther to make sure the sound suppressor was firmly attached, then moved toward the house.
The intruder had removed the listening device from his ear and was now pulling something else out of his bag. Quinn moved silently forward, not stopping until he was only six feet away from his uninvited guest.
'Put it down,' Quinn said in a calm, even voice.
The man froze, then lowered his hands. In one was a thin, ropelike substance. Quinn recognized it immediately. Incendiary cord. He wasn't quite sure what the guy had in mind, but there was no mistaking the ultimate objective.
'Drop it,' Quinn said.
The intruder did as he was told.
'Now turn around and stand up. Slowly,' Quinn cautioned. 'Hands in the air.'
The intruder followed Quinn's instructions. The man was about five foot ten and wiry. He couldn't have been more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He was dressed all in black. Even his face, which was smeared with something like grease or shoe polish, was black.
'Five steps,' Quinn said. 'Two away from the window and three toward the front door.'
He watched as the intruder stepped away from his bag and toward the entrance. So far the guy was following orders. Quinn took a step forward, keeping a wary eye on the man. 'Turn around and face the wall,' Quinn said.
When the intruder's back was to him, Quinn shoved the man between the shoulder blades, forcing him hard against the building. Because of the angle, most of the guy's weight was now on his hands, making it nearly impossible for him to make any kind of move on Quinn.
Quinn did a quick body search. The man was carrying a Glock in a shoulder holster, and a seven-inch Ka-Bar fighting knife in a leather sheath on his belt. Quinn took the weapons, then reached over and knocked once on the front door.
Nate opened it instantly. 'I was wondering when the hell you were going to –' He stopped, staring.
'Hands behind you,' Quinn said to the intruder. 'We're going inside.'
** *
'Kitchen,' Quinn told Nate once the front door was closed again.
Nate led the way. As they passed the living room, Quinn dropped the Glock and the knife on the couch.
The kitchen was a work of art – exposed wood, stainless steel, and a floor covered by light brown tiles imported from Spain. It was almost like one of those kitchens you'd see in a magazine: spacious, functional, with a large island in the center. Off to one side was a breakfast nook, complete with a nineteenth-century wooden table and an eclectic mix of chairs. Nate pulled one of the chairs out from the table, and Quinn pushed the intruder onto it.
'Turn on the light,' Quinn said to Nate.
Nate walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. The light gave Quinn his first chance to get a good look at his prisoner. Even with the black face paint, he wasn't surprised he recognized the man.
'Hello, Gibson,' Quinn
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