A Perfect Storm
Page 113

Quin sat slumped on a bus bench in dirty clothes, his hair matted, his legs pulled up so that his face rested on his knees. Massive oak trees, their roots breaking through the buckled sidewalks, separated him from an empty parking lot, no longer used thanks to broken glass. It looked as though he’d slept there, seeking the shelter of the trees.
Had he been homeless in the recent storms?
Trying to find relief from the unrelenting sun and heat of the day?
He’d somehow escaped Dare’s net when the police closed in at the Green Goose. Maybe Quin had something to hide, something in his past that made him wary of the law, even when it tried to rescue him.
Or maybe someone else had gotten to him first.
She circled the block, then parked her car well away from the area, about half a mile down, closer to a grocery store. After locking it tight, she strolled back to where she’d seen Quin. That morning, in the dark at Spencer’s house, without making a single sound, she’d dressed in worn jeans, unlaced sneakers and a big loose T-shirt. To keep it out of her way, she’d contained her hair in a high ponytail.
The sun baked down on her head, bringing perspiration to the back of her neck, down her spine.
All along the way, she marveled at the trees. Despite the devastation of the area, there were so many of them, big and healthy and beautiful. At some point in time, the area had probably been really pretty.
Like her, time and abuse had forever changed it; it would never be the same.
Quin didn’t hear or see her approach—which made Arizona doubt any willing complicity on his part. Anyone versed in criminal activity would have picked her out several blocks away, since she didn’t bother with stealth. Shoot, trying to slide in and out of the neighborhood would mean utilizing alleyways and darkened doorways, and that’d be more dangerous than coming down the middle of the street.
After scrubbing his hands over his face, Quin pushed up from the bench to pace. Arms folded around his middle, shoulders hunched, limping slightly, he made his way nervously out to the curb, back again.
What are you up to, Quinto?
Her jeans hid the gun at her ankle. Snug against the small of her back, she felt the sheath for her knife digging in with each step she took. Not the knife Chris had just given her. No, she wouldn’t risk losing it. It was too precious to her.
She’d left it, and all the other gifts, in Spencer’s truck.
When, if Spencer started looking for her, would he understand the significance of that? Would he see it as a sign that she wanted to come back?
To him. With him?
No, she hadn’t taken her new knife. But various other weapons filled her pockets, some obvious, some less so.
At the moment, her best weapon was rage.
When she got close enough, she hid it all with a smile. “Hey, Quin.”
Startled, he jerked around so hard he almost fell. He froze at the sight of her standing there. Staring at her wide-eyed, something awful shone on his face, something akin to paralyzing fear.
She went still, too. He looked…ravaged. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice soft with menace, she asked, “What happened to you, Quin?”
A hot breeze sent the enormous tree limbs swaying, leaving dappled sunlight to dance over his dark skin. He shook his head without answering. “You came early.”
An accusation? His eyes looked wild, filled with fear. Knowing the gig was up, that Quin was part of a trap, Arizona shrugged. “I’m not a real trusting sort.”
Almost sick, he lifted a shaking hand to his face, and his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
“Because?” She walked past him to the lone bench, all the while keeping watch. All of the surrounding buildings offered concealment for creeps; the danger could come from anywhere.
But if she didn’t face the danger, she couldn’t very well combat it.
“I had no choice.”
“Yeah, I figured that, ya know? I can tell the good guys from the bad. So how about we get away from here now? I could help you, if you’d let me.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Because?” she asked again.
“I…” He swallowed hard, went through an internal battle, and then blurted with remorse, “I have a sister. A young sister. She is all I have.”
Ah, that figured. “So someone’s using her to make you toe the line, huh?” Sympathy welled up, but she hid that with the rage. She didn’t have a sister. She had…no one. Well, maybe Jackson—but God help anyone who tried to use him. “How old are you, Quin?”
“Sixteen.”
She sat down on the bench. “You’re working with someone.”
His face went pale.
“I already know it. The thing is, I don’t know who. The raid you talked about at the bar? How’d you get out? How’d this other person get out? Or was he ever there?”
He shook his head. “I had no choice.”
“Yeah, I know. We already covered that, right?” She kept her senses open, alert to any intrusion of danger. “I’m not blaming you, you know.”
“But you will!”
So much fear. She understood it, because she’d felt it before. Who was she kidding? She sometimes felt it still.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t have gone to Marla, trusting her to cover her ass. If this all went wrong, and it very well might, well then, Marla would tell Spencer, and he’d let Jackson and the others know, and one way or another, they’d find her.
She’d left enough info for them to easily track her.