have a point person who knew what they were up to, especially when the location was an unfamiliar one. Quinn’s go-to in these situations was always Orlando. It was more at her insistence than his request, but he wasn’t complaining.
“No, it’s Nate,” Nate said into the phone. “We’re here.” He listened for a moment. “No. All smooth.” A pause, then he looked at the papers Quinn had given him. “The Holiday Inn on … um … Riverside Street. West side of Portland.” Again he listened, then looked back at the papers. “The rendezvous is in the town of Gorham. Twenty-three Main Street. We’re expected to arrive by one-thirty.… Yeah, this afternoon … He’s driving.… Okay, I will.”
He hung up.
“I’m supposed to give you a kiss,” Nate said.
“You come near me and I’ll cut off your other leg.”
A moment of stunned silence, then Nate laughed. “Look at you making a joke about my leg. I think that’s a first.”
“Shut up and look at the map.” Quinn gave his apprentice a rare smile.
Quinn took a shower, then checked the kit that had been waiting for them in the room.
It was a dark blue backpack containing two 9mm guns—a Glock for Nate and the preferred SIG for Quinn—a box of fifty rounds and suppressors and two extra mags for each weapon. There was also a box of disposable rubber gloves and a small first aid kit that included sutures, gauze, and antibiotics. Tucked into a compartment at the back of the bag were copies of the papers that had been waiting for them in the car, and an additional map that showed a more detailed layout of the pertinent part of Main Street in Gorham.
Quinn spent twenty minutes memorizing the map before allowing himself to relax on one of the beds. Nate had turned on the TV and found an old movie on TCM. The Bad and the Beautiful with Kirk Douglas.
“A classic,” Nate said. “One of the best movies about Hollywood ever.”
Quinn had grunted noncommittally. Movies were Nate’s thing.
He had to admit, though, Nate wasn’t wrong about the movie. It was definitely absorbing and helped to pass the time. Once the film was over, they left the Holiday Inn and headed to Gorham.
Back home in Los Angeles it still felt like summer, but here in Maine, not so much.
The state had fully embraced the two-week-old fall with cooler temperatures, browning ground cover, and leaves that had turned beautiful shades of yellow and orange and red.
They came at Gorham from the east on State Route 25. At some arbitrary point Route 25 became Main Street, and before long they were entering the outer regions of Gorham. Homes here were separated by acres, not feet. Most were set back from the road, many down long driveways and hidden by trees and brush.
As they drew nearer to the center of the small town, the homes began to cozy up to one another and draw closer to the road. Still, compared with a big city, the lot sizes were huge. The predominant house color was white, and the common theme seemed to be colonial clapboard. But these weren’t emulating a popular style. These were actual colonial homes, many a couple hundred years old.
As they passed a Burger King on their right, Nate began reading off the addresses, then nodded ahead. “Should be right up there.”
Twenty-three Main Street turned out to be an empty store in one half of a two-story-tall brick building on the south side of the street. The windows were covered on the inside by white butcher paper on which someone had written in large letters:
ALISON’S BOUTIQUE COMING SOON!
The other half was occupied by a café.
Quinn turned right on Cross Street and parked behind a small office building.
“Security cameras?” Quinn asked.
Nate took a quick look around. “None.”
Quinn nodded, then opened his door. Chances were they could leave the Toyota there all day and no one would question it.
“What about the gear?” Nate asked once he joined him outside.
“We’ll come back for it once we know
“No, it’s Nate,” Nate said into the phone. “We’re here.” He listened for a moment. “No. All smooth.” A pause, then he looked at the papers Quinn had given him. “The Holiday Inn on … um … Riverside Street. West side of Portland.” Again he listened, then looked back at the papers. “The rendezvous is in the town of Gorham. Twenty-three Main Street. We’re expected to arrive by one-thirty.… Yeah, this afternoon … He’s driving.… Okay, I will.”
He hung up.
“I’m supposed to give you a kiss,” Nate said.
“You come near me and I’ll cut off your other leg.”
A moment of stunned silence, then Nate laughed. “Look at you making a joke about my leg. I think that’s a first.”
“Shut up and look at the map.” Quinn gave his apprentice a rare smile.
Quinn took a shower, then checked the kit that had been waiting for them in the room.
It was a dark blue backpack containing two 9mm guns—a Glock for Nate and the preferred SIG for Quinn—a box of fifty rounds and suppressors and two extra mags for each weapon. There was also a box of disposable rubber gloves and a small first aid kit that included sutures, gauze, and antibiotics. Tucked into a compartment at the back of the bag were copies of the papers that had been waiting for them in the car, and an additional map that showed a more detailed layout of the pertinent part of Main Street in Gorham.
Quinn spent twenty minutes memorizing the map before allowing himself to relax on one of the beds. Nate had turned on the TV and found an old movie on TCM. The Bad and the Beautiful with Kirk Douglas.
“A classic,” Nate said. “One of the best movies about Hollywood ever.”
Quinn had grunted noncommittally. Movies were Nate’s thing.
He had to admit, though, Nate wasn’t wrong about the movie. It was definitely absorbing and helped to pass the time. Once the film was over, they left the Holiday Inn and headed to Gorham.
Back home in Los Angeles it still felt like summer, but here in Maine, not so much.
The state had fully embraced the two-week-old fall with cooler temperatures, browning ground cover, and leaves that had turned beautiful shades of yellow and orange and red.
They came at Gorham from the east on State Route 25. At some arbitrary point Route 25 became Main Street, and before long they were entering the outer regions of Gorham. Homes here were separated by acres, not feet. Most were set back from the road, many down long driveways and hidden by trees and brush.
As they drew nearer to the center of the small town, the homes began to cozy up to one another and draw closer to the road. Still, compared with a big city, the lot sizes were huge. The predominant house color was white, and the common theme seemed to be colonial clapboard. But these weren’t emulating a popular style. These were actual colonial homes, many a couple hundred years old.
As they passed a Burger King on their right, Nate began reading off the addresses, then nodded ahead. “Should be right up there.”
Twenty-three Main Street turned out to be an empty store in one half of a two-story-tall brick building on the south side of the street. The windows were covered on the inside by white butcher paper on which someone had written in large letters:
ALISON’S BOUTIQUE COMING SOON!
The other half was occupied by a café.
Quinn turned right on Cross Street and parked behind a small office building.
“Security cameras?” Quinn asked.
Nate took a quick look around. “None.”
Quinn nodded, then opened his door. Chances were they could leave the Toyota there all day and no one would question it.
“What about the gear?” Nate asked once he joined him outside.
“We’ll come back for it once we know
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