Shadow of Betrayal

Quinn scanned those close by, but no one matched what he was looking for. Dark salmon polo shirt and jeans. That had been all the description Primus had given Peter.

Quinn moved farther into the crowd, knowing he had to find Primus immediately, before the remaining assassin could get to them.

Dark salmon polo shirt.

He glanced over at the ticket lines. There seemed to be an equal mix of men and women, most older, retirement age. Noon on a weekday, most of the younger set was too busy working toward their first heart attacks to visit a museum.

Dark salmon.

Goddammit!

There were several polo shirts, but the majority were either blue or black or white. None salmon colored.

His gaze moved toward the Ahmanson Building, scanning toward the right.

Dark salmon polo—

There.

His gaze zeroed in on the back of a man at the far end of the central court. A polo shirt that looked almost brown but could pass for dark salmon. The guy’s black hair was trimmed short and had more than a hint of silver running along the sides and across the back. And on the top there was very little hair at all. Fifties, maybe, or a youthful sixty.

He was headed toward the northwest exit. Primus?

Quinn glanced over his shoulder to see if he could spot the suit, but there was no sign of the potential assassin. Ahead, polo shirt had picked up his pace and was nearing the path between the buildings that would take him out of sight.

Quinn weaved through the growing crowd, his own pace a step below a jog.

“Sorry,” he said as he sidestepped a couple who’d moved into his way.

Primus was only a few steps away from disappearing around the corner. Quinn started running, acting as though he was trying to catch up with a friend. It seemed to work. People moved out of his way, but few even gave him a second glance.

As the gap closed, the man must have heard Quinn, for he glanced over his shoulder, the look on his face a mixture of anger and worry.

“Hey,” Quinn said, sounding like a friend. “Glad I caught you. It’s been a long time.”

Primus slowed, allowing Quinn to catch up.

“Peter sent me,” Quinn said in a low voice.

“I know who you are,” Primus said through unmoving lips. “But the meet’s off.”

Quinn had a flash of Orlando kneeling next to the dead man by the observation pit, her shirt soaking with her own blood.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

Primus’s eyes narrowed. “You come rushing in, not caring who notices you. You could have gotten us both killed. We’re through here.”

“No,” Quinn said as he clamped his hand on Primus’s arm. “We’re not.”

The man tried to pull it back, but Quinn was in much better shape. In fact, Quinn would have wagered that the man hadn’t been in a gym in thirty years. He was carrying a spare tire around his waist that, at the very least, would get a small car to the next gas station.

“Stop it,” the man said. “Let go of me.”

Quinn ignored the suggestion. Gripping tightly just above Primus’s left elbow, he pulled the man around so they were walking back into the central court area.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I said let go of me.”

Quinn glanced at the man, then returned his gaze to the crowd, scanning for trouble.

“I’m trying to save your life,” Quinn said. “So I would appreciate it if you would shut the hell up.”

CHAPTER

20

PRIMUS SEEMED INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO KNOW when to speak and when to follow directions. He allowed Quinn to lead him through the central court area and down the walkway that led out to the sidewalk along Wilshire Boulevard.

If this had been New York, in no time they’d have been sitting in the back of a cab heading safely away. But this was L.A., where if you wanted a taxi you had to call for one, then wait at least twenty minutes until it arrived. So they were on foot until Quinn could secure a ride.

There was a crosswalk to the left of the LACMA entrance. A small group of people were already waiting at the curb, several leaning forward, anticipating the changing of the traffic light on Wilshire. A second later the pedestrians got their green light to cross the street.

“Come on,” Quinn said.

He yanked the man toward the street. The red palm that meant wait started blinking in the crosswalk signal just as they stepped off the curb.

“Faster.”

Primus complied, matching Quinn stride for stride.

They had already passed the divider in the middle of the road and were halfway across the two eastbound lanes when something whizzed through the air several feet to the left of Quinn’s head.

“What the fuck was that?” Primus said, his step faltering.

Quinn knew exactly what it was, but this wasn’t the time for talk. Instead, he pushed Primus to the right. Another bullet flew behind them, and a woman’s voice cried out in pain. And then screams everywhere.

Quinn pulled Primus to the right, altering their path again, before reaching the curb.

“Jesus,” Primus said. “Someone’s shooting at us!”