[Quinn 04] - The Silenced

Empty, empty, empty, he noted as he continued to check each car. Where the hell are you?

He was almost ready to give up when he spotted Julien six cars ahead on the other side. At least he thought it was Julien. The silhouette sitting behind the wheel of the beat-up blue Peugeot looked right, but all Nate could see was the back of the man’s head and his shoulders.

Still pretending to be out on an early morning stroll, he didn’t cross the street until he was three cars past Julien’s position. As he did he allowed himself a quick glance back at the Peugeot. Definitely Julien. But, he realized, something was wrong. The Frenchman was in the exact same position he’d been when Nate first spotted him.

Nate turned down the sidewalk so that he would pass the Peugeot. As he neared, he could see that both of Julien’s eyes were closed. For a split second he thought that the Frenchman had fallen asleep. But another step closer brought something else into view.

A dark, damp stain surrounding a hole in the middle of Julien’s shirt. Not asleep.

Nate’s mind screamed at him to run, but his pace didn’t falter. He knew showing no reaction was the only thing that might save him. He’d only gone about five car lengths when he heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind him. He searched the road ahead, thinking there would be others coming from that direction, boxing him in. He pulled out his phone, accessed the keyboard, and began typing.

The steps behind him increased their pace. He counted three separate sets.

“Pardon, monsieur,” a voice called out.

Nate was almost done. Only two more words.

“Monsieur,” a second voice, more forceful than the first.

Nate looked over his shoulder, his face displaying the appropriate mix of caution and uncertainty. The three men were only twenty feet away. Two were about the same size as Nate, while the third was a few inches shorter. Nate had seen them all before. He’d watched from across the street as they’d come rushing out of Liz’s apartment building with Julien the previous afternoon.

“Oui?” he said.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” one of the tall ones asked.

“Un peu … a little,” Nate said, hoping his accent was convincing.

“You’re French?”

“Of course.”

“You live around here?”

“Pourquoi? Eh, why? Are you lost?”

The one doing the talking smiled, while the other two stared at Nate. “Not lost,” he said. “And I’m willing to bet you’re not from around here either.”

“Je ne comprends pas,” Nate said.

“I think you do.” The talker looked at the other tall one. “What did Julien call him? Nat? No, it was—”

Before he could finish, Nate’s foot slammed into the man’s stomach. The talker flew backward on his ass, doubling over as he lay on the sidewalk.

The other two were quick to respond, but not quick enough. Even as he was kicking, Nate had switched his phone to his left hand and had reached under his jacket with his right, grabbing the Glock he’d gotten from Julien.

The short one was pulling his own gun free, so Nate shot him first. The second guy didn’t even try for his gun. Instead he rushed forward before Nate could aim at him.

They crashed to the sidewalk, the attacker landing on top of Nate and nearly knocking the breath out of him.

The man reached for the gun, gripping Nate’s wrist with one hand and going for the barrel with the other. Nate rolled to his left and threw the guy’s weight off him. A movement beyond the man caught Nate’s attention. It was the first guy, the talker. He was pushing himself to his feet, a pistol already in his hand.

The guy on the ground didn’t see this, so Nate let the man twist his arm until the barrel was pointed at his partner. Nate pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the talker just below the neck, dropping him to the sidewalk in a heap.

The shot, having gone off less than a foot from the ear of the guy struggling with Nate, stunned him. Nate wrenched his hand free and pushed himself away along the ground. As the man clawed at his jacket, going for his own weapon, Nate shot him in the chest.

Three dead, and enough gunfire to wake up several blocks’ worth of potential witnesses.

Nate scrambled to his feet.

He spotted his phone and picked it up, but it was immediately apparent he would never be able to use it again. The display screen was smashed in and the frame was bent. Not wanting to leave it behind for the police to find, he stuffed it in his pocket, then began running down the street.

There were no sirens yet, but they’d be coming, and soon.

Nate headed back toward the Peugeot. As he passed it, he realized there weren’t three dead. There were four. “I’m sorry, Julien,” he whispered.